Limbo

Posted: May 5, 2011 in Uncategorized

*WARNING!!!  TRIGGERS!!!*

When I was nine years old my Daddy kicked in the door to my room and pointed his gun at me.

Later he said he didn’t remember doing it.  Luckily for him, the drugs and alcohol had taken him some place far away.

I used to try to get myself far away too.  I read a lot and daydreamed.  I hoped one day my mother would really take me away.  She didn’t.  So I did my best to remove myself.  Stayed in my room and barely spoke.

It didn’t work.  I was there that night and I remember everything.

I remember how he was naked from the waist down and how I was as shocked and scared to see his penis as I was to see his gun.

I remember how he closed one eye to size me up, his target.  How I threw my Barbie comforter up in front of me as though it were a shield, still a child for a few more seconds.  Still, I knew better than to ask for help.

I remember how he told me he was just playing a game.  These are the kinds of games my parents played with me.

My childhood was over that night and in that way he pulled the trigger and killed me.  I was not the little girl I had once been, but I was not yet grown up either.

I stayed in that twilight limbo a very long time.  I went through the motions of growing up, but I was just serving my time.

I was still in limbo in high school when I barely spoke and had trouble making eye contact.  They called me ‘ugly’ and ‘freak’.  The teachers let them because that’s just what kids do.  I let them too because the teachers taught me better than to ask for help.

I was still there when I went to college and couldn’t stop crying.  Unlike my father, I still remembered.  They told me to get over it.  They were young, privileged, and in pursuit of happiness.  They were hot on its tail and I was slowing them down with my stories.  They gerrymandered me out of their lives so that my voice lost its power.  They called this boundary setting.  Boundary setting. . . as though I had been a naughty child who needed a time out.

The therapists nodded and said ‘tell me more about that’ as though I were someone who had been taught to talk.  When I told them too much they locked me up.  They said it was for my own good.  My father used to say that too.

The Dr.s wrote prescriptions for my purgatory and I learned to swallow pills like they were my pride, like they were the silence being thrust down my throat.  I learned my lesson.  I knew so much better now than to ask for help.

Purgatory is quiet.  I hear the birds whistling and the passing of the traffic outside my widow.

Hell is where you go when you are hated.

Purgatory is where you are sent when nobody gives a shit, not even God.

I have surrendered my belief in God, mankind, and A Reason for All Things.

I am here paying for someone else’s sins.

I was too young to be Saved.

These words are a message in a bottle so that some stranger on a distant shore might wonder who I was.

But I know better than to ask for help.

-X

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