Memory Trouble - Putting the Pieces Together Again

Bad Memory

The thing that struck me reading the books I mentioned in my last post is how clearly most people seem to remember their abuse. For me, most memories are vague. This is probably in part due to the years of repression where I didn't accept the memories were there at all, but I am concerned about my memory as I have a lot of trouble remembering things. I don't think I should be so forgetful at just 22.

I have often wondered if one of the incidents I do remember had an impact on my brain function. I'm not stupid, I'll give myself that credit at least, but the amount of things I forget is worrying. I also have difficulty recognising faces and connecting them to names, or connecting names to books, films, events, things like that. Like I just can't quite link things up right.

The time I'm concerned about is once when I was 9. I hadn't been abused much at this point, only physically, but this compounded the physical abuse for me. My half brother was about 14 or 15, much taller and certainly far stronger than me. I was with a friend in my room and we were trying to do our homework. He often used to disturb us when she came over, which was about one evening every week while her mother worked late.

Anyway, this time I was really fed up of him always barging in and just wanted to do my homework with my friend in peace. I sat on the floor behind the door to block it, and he tried to push it open regardless. I stood and pushed back with all the strength I could muster but there was really no point, he had the door open in seconds and me trapped behind it. I was in the corner of the room, squashed between the door and a brick wall. My friend had hidden under my desk, about 6' away down the wall. My brother then moved the door violently, with me behind it, slamming my head against the wall and ricocheting it off the door as I bounced back and forth. He was laughing and I was crying in pain. I remember when he stopped and went away I was in a lot of pain and felt dizzy and blurry, my friend said she could feel the vibration of the impact through the wall even from that distance away.

I never told anyone about this, so I didn't have any examination of the head injuries (several lumps and a bad headache for a couple of days) so I have no idea of the damage it may have caused to my brain and memory while it was developing at that age. All I know is that now I'm having a lot of difficulty with my memory, I have to ask people to repeat themselves, I repeat myself a lot, I often forget important things or plans I was told a few times over. It's really frightening to think that you're young and might be losing your mind, but have no way of really knowing. I'm not even sure how to explain this worry to someone without sounding totally mad.

Remembering the Abuse

Because of my trouble with memory I'm finding it hard to recall all the specific incidents in which I was abused over the years. Maybe it was more serious then I remember, maybe some things happened which I've still repressed, or maybe it's all just me losing my mind and thinking things happened that didn't. Well, here is as good a place as any to start trying to piece it all together.

Before I start, I'd just like to mention a part of Breaking Free. I was reading about other peoples stories, and couldn't help but wonder why I was reading, my experiences were not as extreme as these people's, I was obviously being stupid and should put the book down because it's written for people who have suffered real problems... But then, I reached the end of the chapter. Here they explained just my worry, I had been comparing my abuse to other people's and making it seem insignificant to myself and making myself feel worse about it. The truth is child sexual abuse is any kind of sexual advance in childhood that is unwanted, unwelcome and makes you feel bad about yourself. If you're reading what I've written and think, "my experiences weren't as bad" or "she doesn't know what she's on about, I suffered far worse and I'm just fine", well please try and remember that abuse affects us all in different ways. One person may suffer a far greater trauma and cope with it well, while another may suffer in a comparatively minor way and be utterly devastated. I'm finding it personally difficult to accept this still myself, but it is an important part of the healing that we look at the effects for severity and not the cause. Try not to compare suffering, at the end of the day it's all pain we shouldn't have ever experienced, to what extent it happened is nowhere near as important as to the extent it has affected us and what we must do to correct this and live our lives happily. Anyway, enough of the rambling, I should stop procrastinating and just go for this while I feel like I can.

The first incident I remember is my half brother punching me in the arm, for reasons I can't recall. It went red almost immediately and I went downstairs to tell our mother. She believed me at first but then he instantly got all teary and told her I'd made it up to get him in trouble. She believed him over me, because his stepmother and father had hit him for what his other brothers and stepbrothers/sisters had done and blamed on him before he moved to live with us. This just taught me the worst possible lesson, it didn't matter what I said even if the evidence was right there, he could get away with hurting me any time or way he wanted. He knew that too right then, he had his way and he could manipulate mum to believe him with the sob story of his own unhappy childhood.

The main problem with the whole situation was both mum and dad worked until late, leaving a couple of hours when it was just the kids home. I was living with 3 older half brothers who had moved in with us from their homes. 2 were on my mum's side, and had moved out of their father's house because he and their stepmother were alcoholic and abusive. The 3rd was my father's son who had been living with us for a little longer anyway. The youngest, the abuser, was my mothers younger son. The other boys would often be out with friends after school or in their own rooms, but the other one liked to disturb me.

He often made sexual comments towards myself and the few friends I ever brought home with me. He had few friends of his own and would insist on disturbing what we were doing and messing it up or joining in. I didn't have anywhere to go to be away from him, no safe place, and if I refused to let him join us he would hurt me or find a parent and complain until he was allowed to join.

I remember one time, he showed a page in his porn mag, of a woman sat on a chair with her legs open. He bet me I wouldn't dare do that. In that kind of way he would make things a game. It would be a game to hide from him and he would find me. It would be a game that when one day the house was empty and he made me strip and stand naked in front of him in the living room. It would be a game that he would put on a latex glove and touch me, and make me touch him. It was a game in the back of the car from family counselling that he would play with his erection like a joystick and make me do it while my parents continued to argue or ignore each other in the front of the car.

Although I cannot recall many specific incidents, I remember it wasn't consistent. He would go a week or so leaving me alone then come back again. One time, he made me bring the hoover to him in his room. He was particularly stupid, laying there in his bed, because we had a Dyson. He made me plug it in and pass him the nozzle and gave me the signal to turn it on. I inwardly laughed at his scream of pain as he told me to turn it off again, and considered leaving the damn thing on to teach him a lesson, but I caved to his demand and pulled the plug. He then told me to get something cold. Confused and scared I ot a latex glove and filled it with cold water, bringing it to him to use as a compress. Why I ever helped him I'll never know.

I remember as I got older, he was less frequently interested in me, and would leave me alone for much longer. We moved house when I was about 12 and I spent the first week or so feigning illness and staying in bed so I didn't have to see him or meet the new neighbouring children. Nobody really questioned it, just accepted I was ill and needed to sleep all day. I don't think much happened in that house, though I do remember him being underneath my bed rubbing his crotch along the side of it and gyrating on it. The last time he came to me he offered me 10p to lift up my top and expose my chest. I was about 14 and so fed up and scared of his strength that I just agreed. I even got annoyed when it wasn't 10p he gave me but a stupid football coin which he said was worth 10p. It was after that I guess I was too old, not interesting to him any more, or maybe he decided I was no longer any use or that perhaps girls his own age were more attractive.It wasn't too long after that that he moved out and I was left with the blissful peace of mind I'd been hoping for all those years.

You know, there are times I honestly wish I could've just been raped by a stranger rather than suffer the prolonged indignation of being molested by my half brother. Couldn't it have just been over and done with in one horrific act rather than years of uncertainty and fear? Even now just the words "molest" and "incest" make me feel like vomiting, they make me feel filthy and like I want to tear off my own skin.

One thing that bothers me slightly is I can't even remember if I was only 9 when it began or if things had happened before then. I was a very quiet and withdrawn child, I had difficulty socialising even in my first school and absorbed myself completely in study from day one. I have thought sometimes what if someone else abused me when I was younger and I just don't remember because I blocked it out? I didn't bleed when I lost my virginity, I just don't remember if there's anything else that could have stopped that. His vile gloved fingertips never to my knowledge made me bleed, but then it's natural sometimes for it to be broken before sex with a first boyfriend anyway right? I mean, not every girl has to bleed?... I'm just not sure.

I think I should stop now, my head is pounding and I've been writing for nearly 6 hours straight. I need to give myself a break. I feel better for putting some of this on to the safe anonymity of a screen, and though I cannot remember it all and haven't let out all of the pain in this one night, this is the start. This is the first part of relief I hope to feel when it's all over, when I can stop just surviving and start truly living.