Beige

Chapter Twenty-Seven

TW: MENTION OF TRAUMA

Alexis Monpettit

I've never been one that remembers much of her childhood.

I never wanted to remember the traumatic experiences I had suffered, leading my brain to close them off entirely from my memory.

The psychological term is called memory repression.

It's what happens to a lot of people who suffer from trauma. The brain shuts down, and dissociation takes over, leading the trauma to become ultimately blocked and tucked away in a compartment of the brain that is not easily accessed.

In some cases, people can forget the moment of trauma altogether, and not even know what they have suffered through. My mind did this to me after the years of abuse I had suffered. I don't remember most of the beatings that were done to me, simply because my mind has locked those memories away from me. But unfortunately along with those memories, went other ones from my childhood, the good ones.

Memory repression is a survival technique that happens whether we want it to or not.

The thing about repressed memories is that they can come back to you in numerous amounts of ways, hence why many people put trigger warnings before they describe an event that could be considered traumatic. These memories can also come back as nightmares, or flashbacks, something that I experience often.

It's not easy for anyone when these memories resurface, it can trigger their flight or fight response, but it can also be an indication of something your body and mind are trying to tell you- that maybe you are ready to finally deal with the images that haunt you.

Ever since I began going to Christy, my memories have been coming back slowly, unleashing themselves from that hidden part of my brain. It was terrifying at first and still is at times. But the thing about repressed memories is that when they are recalled, it is because you are finally in a place where you feel safe, and are able to recognize that they are a part of your past, and you can let them go.

That's what I'm trying to do right now as I write this letter to my Father that I will present in front of the courtroom in two days.

I'm trying to let the past go.

The pages have been left blank for a few hours now as Maggie types away on her computer. She agreed that a letter would be the best way to say what I want to and to move on. Although she wanted to check with the defendant's lawyer for confirmation.

My eyes haven't left the blank paper in front of me, I've been trying to decide how I want to start the letter.

If I say Dear Kenneth I fear he won't take me seriously, and Father sounds like something out of the sixteenth century.

There's one word that brings bile to rise in my throat, as I try to shake my head clear of the thought.

I've always found myself wanting someone that I could call Dad and have it be out of an act of love and admiration for the person.

But Kenneth lost that right the second his hand left its mark across my face. And then again when his nails left marks on my arms. And again, when I passed out and woke up in a puddle of blood under my head.

The point is, he's not my dad.

A dad is someone who is supposed to be a rock. When life gets hard, and the twists and turns become overbearing, a dad is supposed to be the stability that his child can lean on during the hard times.

A dad is supposed to be a role model. Someone that a child can copy their mannerisms from, their habits, their work ethic. Someone that a child can look up to so that they know how to react when the world turns continues to turn around them, and they're left at a standstill, not knowing what to do.