Painted Faces - the masks people wear

Beginnings

I'm Christa. Christa Lee. And this is my story...

March 14 2020..... my story starts here, but really began long ago. I am 56 years old, but part of me still lives long ago, in a hell that was woken to me only 18 months ago. Memory is a strange thing; sometimes your body appears to protect you from it. From memories too harsh to accept, too traumatic to hold onto. Then for some reason God decides your time is now, you're deemed old enough, secure in Him enough maybe, to open a box shut closed so tightly and look at what is inside.

As with Pandora's box, once mine began to open it became nearly impossible to close again. A life that was seemingly relatively in order suddenly spun out of control. How can these memories be real, true? Is it just some trick of a subconscious desperate for protection, to be accepted no matter what? Can I trust them, this process? How long will it take before those God told me to trust give up on me too? Before life as I know it spectacularly explodes into nothingness, hurt, splinters damaging those around me beyond repair? Don't I need to hide it for their sake as well? Don't I?

Let me be clear: no-one, me included, asks for this.

So - an unexpected life was revealed to me in flashbacks, ones so real I dissociated, shut down, struggled to maintain my hold on reality then finally splintered inside. Wave after wave hit me with relentless force. I desperately tried to maintain a normal appearance to those around me, trying only to explore what I experienced inside my head in the room of my counsellor and brother. His support was unequal, unconditional, sent from God, until 6 months ago he finally ceased to support me.

I am 14 years old. I am in my box; at least that's how I refer to it. Long enough to lie flat but not sit up. There are holes above my head to allow airflow and a pink, shabby sheepskin to lie on. It is soft, but sometimes itchy. They make me get in then hammer nails to secure the lid. My prison is complete. Sometimes I hear them talking, discussing what they'll do with me next or just mundane conversations between friends. Peppered with obscenities, swearing and occasional laughter or anger. Often not realizing I can hear, sometimes determined to frighten me: conversations close and loud. I try to keep my fear hidden. From them. I won't allow them the satisfaction, the victory. From myself, so hysteria doesn't escape. If I keep my eyes shut I can be anywhere. Open skies, a soft breeze, freedom. Eventually my box is a haven, a respite, safe from their fingers, fists, touch. Away from invasion into my secret places, body and soul. I lie still; in my head I am small, they can forget I am here. Other times they play games with me; pour water or worse over the holes and through to my face. At first I reacted, squirmed to move away (hopeless) turn my head aside and beg them to stop. Quickly realize this is what they want, enjoy. So I numb myself to silence, resist the temptation to scream, forget to react to the smell, try to avoid the taste. How then is this my safer option?

Robby sits on the other end of the box, alternately friend, protector and fiend. I am kind of drawn to him; is he redeemable? His motives confuse me, tip me over the edge. I am too tired, too afraid to do the wrong thing, too afraid to trust but until much later not afraid to hope. He I think is not that much older than me. Past school age, sure, but maybe not yet 20. Maybe he's confused and conflicted too. Certainly the only one I can talk to, expect any form of humanity from, haphazard though it is. What plan is his today?

The house is old, wooden, away from other houses but not too far from my home. The first room has a large wooden table, chairs and a cabinet to the left, door to the right. Through that door is my room, or should I say the room I am locked in. Wooden panelling from floor, also wooden, to halfway up the walls. A mattress, old and lumpy on the floor; another wall to the left divides off a corridor – I never worked out where that went. On the wall to the left a hand-basin and window above it. The sort with no cupboard underneath and taps – one for cold, one hot. I tried the window once but it's locked; firmly jammed, and frosted so you can't see out or in. Look left from there and there's a hallway with a phone by the wall, which leads you to a bathroom of sorts with a basin, toilet and shower. Old, dirty, scummy. I wonder who lived here before. And do they all live here now? There are other rooms but I never see them.

How did I come to be here, and how will I ever get away? I come back because I must. There are secrets to keep, to preserve my reputation, my family's safety. A trade of my innocence for a future. Be friendly to all. Hide behind masks and try to avoid conflict. Passive, alone, with Rana (best friend) I form fantasy worlds in which to dwell happily even for just a moment. Today I am 14 – what will I be tomorrow?

Now at 56 I wonder at how powerful the mind is, to separate off so completely these two existences. I look back and am surprised. There is no knowledge in my memories of life at home of my other existence, yet I remember the pain, anguish. Thought I didn't know why I should suffer that way, why I felt different and held myself apart from others my age. Are these new memories real? How do I make sense of it all?

It began as I got off the school bus one day, at the bottom of the hill, a sunny day and I am anxious to get home. Two older boys are leaning against a fence, laughing and joking. A comment directed my way makes me laugh, make eye contact. Head down, turn away, throw my pack over my shoulder and start for home. Then they are beside me, trying to engage, I walk faster. Until there is a distance between me and the others from the bus, they don't seem to notice my plight anyway. I am nervous, unsure, suddenly aware they're going nowhere. I am pulled roughly down a side street, pushed to the ground. This can't be happening, doesn't happen to good girls like me. I remember something – claim I have my period, maybe that will put them off, I haven't done this before, please don't hurt me. Just don't. They laugh at my innocence; there are other ways, don't worry. I struggle to get away. There are two of them, no mercy anywhere. One after the other, excruciating pain in my back passage – I'm being torn apart and know I will never be the same again. Blood, muck, everywhere. Then they leave but tell me they'll be back. Tell no-one or they'll find me, kill me, they know where I live. Impossibly I try to clean myself at the public toilets, though walking there is difficult and my emotions are dead. My fault, I'm stupid, too friendly, too trusting and made them think I welcomed their advances. That must be it. And now what? Am I defiled completely? Will I ever be safe again? Do I realize this is just the beginning?

Somehow everything is wrong now, that much I do remember. If I had my doubts about growing up before, they are deep seated now. Being me is unsafe, being noticed dangerous. As a child your father protects you, doesn't he? Now the tables turn and I must protect everyone else. From me. I separate neatly my two realities; I guess the only outward sign would be my sadness, withdrawal, then failure to thrive. It is a mystery to my family. I lose my appetite and slide into anorexia. Over time I decide that to disappear completely is the answer. I see my shadow and wish I could be that small and inconspicuous. Maybe if I'm bony they will lose interest. I will no longer have "the face of an angel" as one of them likes to claim. No longer catch the attention of artists that ask to paint me, just no longer be. But paradoxically, my whole worth is in my looks, my cleverness, my talent in dance. Neither do I want to be ugly and lose what others see in me. I can disappoint no-one. My only hope is in being good. I can harbour no valid opinions of my own making; I have no voice. How then do I survive?