Post by NotSoPerfect on Apr 18, 2005 8:51:50 GMT -6
My phone rang and interrupted my reading.
“Hello?”<br>
“Honey, it’s me, please don’t hang up yet.”<br>
My lips pursed together and I fought my urge to slam the phone back into its cradle. “Mother, I told you, I will talk to you and Dad in court.”<br>
“Honey,” she begged, “please, you need help, this is all a lie!”<br>
“I have help!” I cried. “Help that made me see the truth! All of those years of torture, and you were there! I am only sorry that I didn’t act sooner, that I didn’t seek help when I was younger. You forced me to forget all of the horrible situations that I had to endure with Dad, and now it is even harder for me.”<br>
“It’s a scam—!”<br>
I hung up the phone. That woman had a lot of nerve. Fortunately, my father had accepted his exile months ago.
* * *
“I need to recall again how Adrienne died,” I told her triumphantly the next day when I arrived, but as soon as the words left my mouth, my courage abandoned me. I sat down and trembled.
She glared at me. “You know how repeating memories is: difficult and ill-advised.”<br>
“I know,” I answered much more passively. “But I need to.” I glanced outside. Rain again. My fingers began to twitch as the increments of water falling doubled and soon tripled. We sat there in silence and I stared out the window. I licked my lips and tapped my foot on the ground impatiently.
“Well?” she asked, seemingly annoyed.
I bit my tongue and began twisting my shirt in my fingers, all the while staring frantically out the window. “Rain. And cold. That’s how it began.”<br>
The scene replayed itself in my memory over and over, faster and faster. I wanted to jump, and to scream, and to hit the wall and rip out my hair. I glanced around, hoping for a distraction, but all I could find was a glass of water on her desk. It’s too intense too much push it out hide it get rid of the cold get rid of the wet and the snow and the cold, I thought.
“Right. It was raining outside. You know how to begin, where were you and how old were you?”<br>
“I was ten and I was home,” I answered as quickly as possible, not sure whether I really wanted to do this again. “I was ten and I was home. I was ten and I was home,” I repeated to myself under my breath, it was a sort of mantra that could keep me safe from my past.
“And what did your father do?”<br>
“He took a – no! I can’t do it!”<br>
“Calm down. You can do it.”<br>
“I can’t do it!” I shrieked. Before I realized what was going on, I jumped to my feet and grabbed her yellow pad of paper and threw it as hard as I could. I picked up the glass of water and hurled it with all my might at the wall. It shattered and pieces of glass and water flew everywhere. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I left.
* * *
Salvation came in the form of a pamphlet awaiting me on my front door. After the afternoon’s unfortunate events, I was vulnerable to nearly anything and picked up the discarded waste of wet paper. I plopped down on my sofa, again exhausted and nearly in tears. I forced myself not to think of him; of his untimely death and the disgusting manner in which it took place. Every time I closed my eyes, there was his corpse. Cold and wet. I abruptly opened them and searched for a distraction. The pamphlet in my hand was soggy, but legible. I opened it.
It was titled, “The False Memory Syndrome Foundation.” I was immediately confused. As I scanned the paragraphs of information, a few words caught my eyes. “The FMS’s objective is to challenge findings in some forms of psychotherapy which claim to uncover early childhood sexual molestation which never really existed. Many of the purported FMS victims subsequently confronted their parents (very often their father or step-father), verbally or occasionally in courts of law, about their alleged abuse.”<br>
I was wrong. About everything. About my mother, and my father, and him. I forced myself to remember Adrienne’s death. The water and the cold.
I was ten and I was home. Adrienne was twenty-five, home from college again. He was fifteen years older than I, and my brother, and that was why he was often present at those times with my father and why he was able to fight for me. Adrienne had come home to tell my parents he was taking me, taking me away with him so I could live with him and be happy. Then, in his rage, my father pulled out a gun and shot him. Adrienne died then, and my father hid his body, and no one knew. No one except me, but it was hidden in memory. It was raining out and cold and I thought about how wet and cold he must have been outside all alone. And I cried for him all night.
I cried for him all of this night, too.
* * *
The next day, thankfully, was warm and dry. I ventured outside to walk and consider my circumstances. I could not have fabricated such real and vivid memories, I knew. I could not have imagined Adrienne, my brother. False Memory Syndrome had obviously affected many people, but I was not one. However, as sure as I wished to be of myself, I had doubts.
I checked all of the records I could get my hands on. My father never had a license to own a gun. There was no record of my family living in the beach town I grew up in until I was five. The only grocery store in that town had closed prior to my birth.
Finally, I checked the birth records at the hospital where my younger brother and I were born. My family had owned the house near it for over twenty years, so if Adrienne had been born, it was there. No Adrienne.
I cried again, then called my mom.
“Hello?”<br>
“Honey, it’s me, please don’t hang up yet.”<br>
My lips pursed together and I fought my urge to slam the phone back into its cradle. “Mother, I told you, I will talk to you and Dad in court.”<br>
“Honey,” she begged, “please, you need help, this is all a lie!”<br>
“I have help!” I cried. “Help that made me see the truth! All of those years of torture, and you were there! I am only sorry that I didn’t act sooner, that I didn’t seek help when I was younger. You forced me to forget all of the horrible situations that I had to endure with Dad, and now it is even harder for me.”<br>
“It’s a scam—!”<br>
I hung up the phone. That woman had a lot of nerve. Fortunately, my father had accepted his exile months ago.
* * *
“I need to recall again how Adrienne died,” I told her triumphantly the next day when I arrived, but as soon as the words left my mouth, my courage abandoned me. I sat down and trembled.
She glared at me. “You know how repeating memories is: difficult and ill-advised.”<br>
“I know,” I answered much more passively. “But I need to.” I glanced outside. Rain again. My fingers began to twitch as the increments of water falling doubled and soon tripled. We sat there in silence and I stared out the window. I licked my lips and tapped my foot on the ground impatiently.
“Well?” she asked, seemingly annoyed.
I bit my tongue and began twisting my shirt in my fingers, all the while staring frantically out the window. “Rain. And cold. That’s how it began.”<br>
The scene replayed itself in my memory over and over, faster and faster. I wanted to jump, and to scream, and to hit the wall and rip out my hair. I glanced around, hoping for a distraction, but all I could find was a glass of water on her desk. It’s too intense too much push it out hide it get rid of the cold get rid of the wet and the snow and the cold, I thought.
“Right. It was raining outside. You know how to begin, where were you and how old were you?”<br>
“I was ten and I was home,” I answered as quickly as possible, not sure whether I really wanted to do this again. “I was ten and I was home. I was ten and I was home,” I repeated to myself under my breath, it was a sort of mantra that could keep me safe from my past.
“And what did your father do?”<br>
“He took a – no! I can’t do it!”<br>
“Calm down. You can do it.”<br>
“I can’t do it!” I shrieked. Before I realized what was going on, I jumped to my feet and grabbed her yellow pad of paper and threw it as hard as I could. I picked up the glass of water and hurled it with all my might at the wall. It shattered and pieces of glass and water flew everywhere. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I left.
* * *
Salvation came in the form of a pamphlet awaiting me on my front door. After the afternoon’s unfortunate events, I was vulnerable to nearly anything and picked up the discarded waste of wet paper. I plopped down on my sofa, again exhausted and nearly in tears. I forced myself not to think of him; of his untimely death and the disgusting manner in which it took place. Every time I closed my eyes, there was his corpse. Cold and wet. I abruptly opened them and searched for a distraction. The pamphlet in my hand was soggy, but legible. I opened it.
It was titled, “The False Memory Syndrome Foundation.” I was immediately confused. As I scanned the paragraphs of information, a few words caught my eyes. “The FMS’s objective is to challenge findings in some forms of psychotherapy which claim to uncover early childhood sexual molestation which never really existed. Many of the purported FMS victims subsequently confronted their parents (very often their father or step-father), verbally or occasionally in courts of law, about their alleged abuse.”<br>
I was wrong. About everything. About my mother, and my father, and him. I forced myself to remember Adrienne’s death. The water and the cold.
I was ten and I was home. Adrienne was twenty-five, home from college again. He was fifteen years older than I, and my brother, and that was why he was often present at those times with my father and why he was able to fight for me. Adrienne had come home to tell my parents he was taking me, taking me away with him so I could live with him and be happy. Then, in his rage, my father pulled out a gun and shot him. Adrienne died then, and my father hid his body, and no one knew. No one except me, but it was hidden in memory. It was raining out and cold and I thought about how wet and cold he must have been outside all alone. And I cried for him all night.
I cried for him all of this night, too.
* * *
The next day, thankfully, was warm and dry. I ventured outside to walk and consider my circumstances. I could not have fabricated such real and vivid memories, I knew. I could not have imagined Adrienne, my brother. False Memory Syndrome had obviously affected many people, but I was not one. However, as sure as I wished to be of myself, I had doubts.
I checked all of the records I could get my hands on. My father never had a license to own a gun. There was no record of my family living in the beach town I grew up in until I was five. The only grocery store in that town had closed prior to my birth.
Finally, I checked the birth records at the hospital where my younger brother and I were born. My family had owned the house near it for over twenty years, so if Adrienne had been born, it was there. No Adrienne.
I cried again, then called my mom.
