Shards

March 27, 2023

As a young child I wasn’t taught about my body. I didn’t know the name for my genitals. I couldn’t have told anyone where I was being touched if they had asked. There were many trips to the doctor for me as a child, for things related and unrelated to my abuse. I remember sitting on a table or chair and a female nurse inspecting the insides of my arms, legs, and the outside of my vagina. I had an allergy to soaps, and I remember a doctor’s visit for this occurring several times during my childhood. There was a cream they gave my parents to administer to me. The first few times my mother administered it and I remember watching her apply it roughly while she tremored. I don’t remember a time when she didn’t shake. Although I had grown up around her, I remember feeling uneasy, both because of her tremors and because of the violent tantrums she threw. At some point my father started administering the creams. Sometimes I wonder if this was when he first became interested in my body.

There were countless nights where my father didn’t come home, and I could hear my mother pacing the floor below. I’d listen to her hard steps and the sound of things moving around. Eventually my father would come home, and they’d begin arguing. Sometimes I’d get out of bed and go down the stairs to see what was happening, fearfully crouched at the bottom of the steps while I watched things unfold. On a handful of occasions my mother would throw glass onto the floor, and I’d rush over to help her. Little shards of glass would become embedded into the bottoms of my feet. They’d bleed and my father would sit me under a light in the living room and try to pluck out the pieces with the tweezers. If that didn’t work, we’d go to the hospital. I remember walking into the hospital one night, no one else was around and it was quiet. A nurse removed the shards of glass. I don’t remember it ever hurting and I don’t think I ever cried when this happened. I didn’t sleep much at all throughout my childhood and into my teens.