September 29, 2004


I'm really worried about my sister. I'm worried so much that I can't spell right. My fingers can't find the keys. If you read my sister's diary, you know that October 1st is the anniversary of something really bad happening. Every year, it's just hard for her to not fall backwards again.

I try to remember anything, anything at all that would tell me what happened to her. My mind is blank.

In 1988 I was in the sixth grade. I had just turned 12. Looking back, I remember being happy a lot. I had a lot of friends at school. But that's all I remember. The rest is gone...blank. I don't know if I've blocked it out OR if it just means that nothing remarkable happened worth remembering.

See, what I don't understand is this:

Some people who are abused forget. They block it out forever, living normal lives.
Some people who are abused remember it all. They turn to drugs and alcohol or anything to try to block it out. Or they become abusers themselves.
Some people who are abused fragment and become so many people that not one has to deal with the all the pain.

Why? Why the differences?

Sometimes I think there ARE things I've blocked out... and that if I could only remember them, I could somehow help my sister. For instance:
When I was about 11 or 12, my dad had a BB gun. He would sit out on the front porch and shoot at things or just shoot BB's into the porch floor. One time there was a gray cat that kept coming around. I don't remember the circumstances leading up to it, or why, but my dad shot the cat twice with the BB gun. I mean, with two BB's at the same time. He shot the cat in the hip and the back. I remember watching the BB go into the cat, and the cat trying to run away. I don't remember anything before or after. Just that moment. It's almost like it's cloudy or damaged. Did it really happen? I don't know. I think so. I'm pretty sure. I remember Dad saying that the cat would be fine, that it just would stop coming around, and that's what he wanted.

I always feel sick when I remember that. I want to reach out to the poor kitty and then kick my dad in the ass. I hate him. That kitty probably died because of him. And I just sat there and watched, helpless. Animal abuse sickens me.

Memories like that make me realize that perhaps my dad really is this awful person. And maybe he did something to my sister. Or maybe he let his disgusting friends do something to my sister. But I don't KNOW anything. And these memories that I do have run around and around in my head...and I keep waiting for something to surface. Something that will give me the answer. The key to open the door. To the rest of the memories or something. Anything that would help my sister.

But if I did remember something, would I believe it? Or would it be too awful? Is my mind trying to protect me from something?

I hate this, I really do. In my heart, I KNOW there are things that happened. Because being near my dad makes my skin crawl. Because everytime he gets near Sammy, my defenses go up. Instantly. If he comes home from work early, and Sammy is with my mom, I panic. I literally panic inside.


I remember being afraid of my dad a lot when we were little. And it's not just a fear you have when you never really see someone who's supposed to be your dad, because dad was never around. It's not only that he was a stranger to me. He was a stranger that scared me.

To this day I don't remember ever, EVER wanting to be with my dad on purpose. Of wanting to hug him. Of even wanting to be close to him. How many people feel this way about their father?


I guess I just wish my childhood would have had a narrator. Or a scribe. Or something. So that I could know the facts. This is what happened, on what day, and at what place. To KNOW. To not have to wonder.

I guess I just wish I could help my sister somehow. But I don't know how.

Until next time.

Posted by Cody on September 29, 2004 8:06 PM

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