PTSD or Family?

Last night I received a land mine bit of information that has rocked me to my core and has me shaking in disbelief and sadness.  When ever I think about what I was told Last night I become physically ill and I want to puke. Oddly in my inability to face this new horrific knowledge in my life  I have been given back parts to a traumatic event that is from a very bad memory I have from junior high school.  This memory has always upset me just to remember.  It’s as if my brain only had so much room in the “Block It Out” section. So,  when I received this crushing info last night, my mind went right to filing it in the “block it out” section, but there was no room so something  else I’ve been blocking out, had to be refilled under “memory”.  Here is what I’ve always remembered.

I was at my dads with my brother.  My parents were shopping and we were home Alone. I was out back in my two piece bathing suit getting a tan when I got up and went to the garage to ask my brother (who is older than me) a question.  I found him doing lines of something on a mirror.  I was horrified! I’ve never seen anyone doing drugs and never expected it would be my own brother! 
“What are you doing!?” I asked even though we both know I knew. 

My brother in turn raged at me, “if you tell dad I will fucking kill you!” 

Then he went into the house and locked me out. I went around the front to go through the front door and that was locked.  And while I was checking that door my brother shut the big garage door. Suddenly I was locked out of our house in a very revealing two piece. I sat Infront of our house for awhile but our porch was small and had all direct sunlight hitting it. I was starting to fry. I tried to ring the bell and knock, but my brother just ignored me. So, I started walking around our block because I was so bored and hot.  I found solace while hiding under trees and sitting in shady grassy areas. 

Finally, after what felt like an hour (but it could have been 14 minutes) my parents finally pulled up in their very loud car.  My dad took one look of me sitting on the curb and asked me, “what the fuck are you doing sitting out here in that!?”

“He locked me  out of the house!” I declare and we all look toward the house where my brother has suddenly opened the big garage door and is working outside again. 

“Get inside and get dressed” my dad demands, sounding all kinds of mad.  

He then drives away and straight into our drive way. Slams the emergency break on and jumps out of the car. He heads straight for my brother who is sweeping the garage floor. My dad then just starts punching my brother in the arms and my dads a big guy.  He just hits my brother and hits him, until my brother laid in a cowering heap on the ground crying. All I could hear was my own crying because I felt so bad for my brother. I felt responsible for his beating.  

Not a good memory right? Well with my shocking news takeing space in the “I don’t want to remember this bullshit lets block it” filing cabinet in my mind, I some how pushed out the sound associated with that memory and a conversation I had with my step mom who was in the car.  I remember that while my dad beat my brother he was yelling at him, “how does that feel? How does it feel when someone bigger than you hits you? You don’t fucking hit girls!” According to my step mom my dad was mad I was outside half naked but he was outraged by the bruises he saw all over my body. The hand prints on my arms, were completely exposed now that I was in the sun and in a bikini. 

I’ve always accepted guilt of my brothers beating as my fault. I always felt bad that it happened to him. But I find it weird I forgot about my own beating. (Don’t get me wrong I am vocal about my brothers abuse) but, I never before put it together in my mind that my dad was beating him for hurting me.  I always thought it was because I was locked outside half dressed. (Which yes I am aware is not my fault and is in itself a form of abuse). I have always viewed my dad in this old memory as the villain. I have been scared of him at times because of it, because I never wanted him to hit me like that and my brother was the victim. And yet I see now that (wether right or wrong) my dad was protecting me and proving a point to my brother, in a sad way, he was the savior and I infact was the victim.  Still what I don’t remember is my own beating that gave me the bruises.  I rember lots of times my brother did cruel things to me. The very many times he would just come in and punch me and walk away, have all blended together. Does it really matter if we remember the actual beating or is it just important to remember you were beat down? 

This new Year is starting off with a bang!


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Coloring Project – The Frog


2010 Summer Reading List

Sookie Stackhouse, the complete stories A touch of Dead
Finger Prints & Facelifts
His First Wife, Gracce Octavia
The promise of happiness, Justin Cratwright
Silk & Shadows
The Honey Thief
The marriage
Ya ya Sisterhood book # 3
The Other Boleyn Girl
Wishful Drinking, Carrie Fisher
3 book flower series by Nora Roberts
The Kept woman
Twlight book # 4
twlight book #3

Coloring Project – The Swan