What is your first ever memory?
Was it happy? (I pray that it was, you know).
I have blurry, far-away memories - as if I'm seeing them underwater and all the sounds and sights are blurry...I think I remember the hut I grew up in - in the Philippines. I think I remember a metal tub I had to sit in and my Mom pouring water over me and laughing as I complained LOUDLY about hating it. I think I remember how dirty the water around us was as I grew up in that village. I think so. I think I remember a thin, straw mat and all of us laying upon the one mat - tucked in together on balmy nights. No blanket. Legs and arms splayed over each other. Snuffles and snores, deep breaths...I think I remember the comfort of being surrounded in family each night as I fell asleep, tucked closely into my Mom's body.
For so long, it was Mom and I. The 2 of us against the world.
Then she met and fell in love with an Englishman and 2 became 3.
I think I remember being in a caravan-type thing with my Mom and Dad after we moved to the Northern Territory. I remember there were tiny statues of the 7 dwarves on the TV and I liked to play with them.
But my first clear, vivid memory?
That is of my Dad explaining all the benefits to my Mom - of giving me away.
I had woken in the night from a bad dream and tiptoed down the hall to my parent's room so I could tell them about it, be comforted and hopefully *fingers crossed* get to sleep in their bed. I felt so blessed whenever I got to sleep in the middle. The monsters couldn't get me there, sandwiched gratefully between the two people I loved most in th world.
"We have our own child now" I remember my Dad's voice coming clearly through the wooden slats of their bedroom door; "Our own son" he repeated.
That dagger to my heart. Wasn't I anyone's?
Did I not too belong to them?
Was I...unwanted?
I remember hearing - or at least I think I do - my Mom standing up for me.
At least someone wants to keep me...or do they?
Because my parents - they talked for hours about giving me away.
It was a difficult decision to keep me.
Like I was a commodity to be traded. A 'thing' to be kept or disposed of.
A nothing.
A burden.
Something that required thought and discussion to keep. To put up with.
The two people who should have been predisposed to loving me and wanting me around...were discussing GIVING ME AWAY.
Do you know what that does to a 5-year-old little girl?
I think I discovered stress and anxiety that night.
They are not fun.
Especially not when you are 5 and don't have the resources to do anything about it.
Tears are slipping down my cheeks as I am writing this.
This is so hard.
So painful.
A wound in my heart that has never healed.
It can't heal...it gets torn open every birthday when Jay gets 10 gifts where I only ever got one. It gets prodded at whenever Mom and Dad rejoiced over Jay's every step, every breath, every smile...while simultaneously pushing me away.
I lost my voice the day my brother was brought home.
I lost my identity.
I ceased to exist.
That wound? That pain? It never went away.
It hurt every 'family day' at school when my parents didn't turn up.
It ached deep in my chest when I got awards at school and would stand to accept them and scan hungrily for my Mom or Dad's face in the audience and always come up empty.
The hole in my heart got bigger every Christmas when I was given a handful of gifts while the whole room was filled with gifts - all the tags marked "Jason" in my Dad's familiar scrawl.
"Thank you, Mom" "I love these, Dad" I would say - holding brightly coloured plastic bangles in my hand and wondering if my parents ever even knew me or what I liked as Jason unwrapped a new bicycle from the factory or screamed in delight at his entire set of He-man action figures complete with castles and 'battle gear'.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear "I'm disappointed in you" "You could have done a lot better, Janet" "You've let us down...again" "Why can't you be more like your brother?" in my parent's voices. It's what I've heard my whole life.
A constant soundtrack of how I'm a complete failure.
So that wound? It festers. It gets infected. It grows. It doesn't ever heal but instead it affects the rest of me with it's poison.
Bullies in my life add to the already running track:
"You are not good enough"
"No one likes you"
"You're not worth anything"
"You are so pathetic"
That pain from knowing my own parents debated about keeping me...it makes me strive further, reach harder, do more, stay longer, give bigger amounts...it makes me fight with everything I have to be heard. To be seen.
It is the mountain I carry.
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