If you missed the last post, start here.
TRIGGER WARNING: Please skip this post if you have triggers relating to sexual abuse or molestation.
This chapter is open for debate. My therapist once told me that most people don’t typically remember their second year, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not possible. She further explained that sometimes, trauma can make the human mind do some pretty damn-near miraculous things, like remembering what happened way back when your memory system was still being wired.
From what I can remember, my life started off with a bang. (Please appreciate the crude irony of this, because I sure am.)
I was living in a trailer with my mom, her boyfriend, Tyler, and my siblings Shane, Laurel, and baby Carrie. On this day, Tyler was walking around the trailer in the nude, as was usual for him, and we kids were watching tv. I remember it being playtime with Tyler, so I followed him back to the main bedroom, and he closed the door. This must have been sometime in the morning because my mom was at work, and I was still in my frilly Little Mermaid nightgown. Looking back, the little get-up was atrocious, but I always felt like such a princess when I wore it, and come to think of it, I don’t recall having many other options.
Alas, I digress. So here we are, in my parents’ room (Tyler was not my father, which we will come to learn, but a two-year-old wouldn’t know the difference). Tyler lies on the bed on his back and motions me over to join him. He sits me on his chest and asks if I remember the rules of this game. I’m looking around the room, noticing the bright sun shining behind the window shades, and nod that I remember. I can feel he’s frustrated that I’m distracted. He lifts me up and sets me on his face. We don’t talk anymore. He lifts my frilly nightgown and I feel his wet tongue on my body. It tickles. I giggle. I don’t know how long it lasts, but I remember being bored and squirming. Tyler lifts me to move to another part of our game. He puts my hands around his manhood and I hate the feeling of his hair in my sweaty little hands. It’s sticky. He uses his hands to help me play my part because I seem to be messing it up. Again, I have no concept of how much time is passing.
Eventually the game is over, and I return to my 2-year-old agenda as usual.