Childhood Reminiscences

I don’t often talk about my childhood but today felt like a good time for it.

We’ve all had scary encounters as children that leave a permanent mark on our minds, things we’ll never forget even when time has withered our bodies.  Even now there are some adults who still check their closet, or behind the shower curtain. I’m no exception.

These paranoid habits have always been a part of my life; it’s something I’ve kept to myself in fear of ridicule and scorn. My intense fear and paranoia I believe can be traced back from one event in my early childhood that I can recall so vividly.

I never talked about it because my step-mother was extremely religious; such things greatly upset her and I’d suffer the blunt of the wrath for seeing such “un-godly” things. She was a Jehovah Witness and their belief system dictated seeing anything that’s not “natural” is a ‘sin’, or at the very least a sign of evil. Because I was still young it was taken as nothing more than a little girl seeing an imaginary ‘boogie-man.’

Within a year of the incident we moved across country; I was young and egger to see the world, blissfully ignorant of the unseen tension between my parents. If I had been more aware like I was now; maybe I would have been more concerned as to why we had to move almost every six months hence after. If we spent longer than six months in a home their fighting would escalate to near verbal and physical abuse, thankfully I was always excluded from these fights. Sometimes I’d sit silent as a mouse by the top of the stares where I couldn’t be seen to hear the commotion. The fights often were about moving, or me.

I should back track a little; because of how often we moved I had a difficult time making friends; eventually I stopped socializing with other children all together-obviously an issue with my teachers. My parents were frequently brought in to school because it was thought that I was mentally disturbed.

The problem aside from alienating myself from others; I apparently talked to myself I was about 7-8 years of age; what would be normally considered too old for an “imaginary friend.” Oddly I never once recalled talking to myself, maybe thinking out loud when trying to solve word or math problems, but who doesn’t do that I ask?

Anyways, after another year of bouncing from place to place the metaphorical levee broke and my parents shipped me back to my home city where I stayed with my aunt and two younger cousins’. I’d lived with them before whenever things got too hectic at home before the move. Things were pretty good for a while too. I went to the same school as my cousins so I had an easier transition with socializing with children in my age group (I only hung around adults because of my “issues”). I even made a small circle of friends.

The school was great; although at the time there used to be a large expanse of forest just behind the school, most of its gone now due to urban development. All students were strictly forbidden to venture into the woods without an adult, or teacher present.  Despite the rules the adults had placed on us did little to stop childish curiosity; we’d enter the forest anyways where we’d play our games.

Eventually the good times came to an end after one of the kids got hurt; this ended with his parents pulled him out of the school eventually. Our group was put under close surveillance after, eventually the cracks formed and we all had a falling out, since then I’ve never spoken to them, nor do I recall their names or faces anymore.

 It was around this point where my teacher Mr. Holloways suspected I was being abused at home, because I’d show up with bruises and cuts all over my arms. I told him I got them from falling down the stairs, a bold face lie and he saw right through it. He inspected my arm thoroughly he claimed that the bruises appeared like a hand print. That was enough to have me dragged off the school nurse.

I was subject to through search where the rest of my bruises were discovered all across my rib cage, back and legs. I wanted to tell the truth, but that would have made things much worse. It took very little to have Childs Services come and I was placed into foster care—eventually my parents did regain custody.

Shortly after my father passed from a heart attack, by then I was 16 and was able to live on my own. I walked out the door and never turned back.