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Tanya

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Bash from the Past [Feb. 4th, 2011|05:34 am]
Tanya
[Current Location |Redmond, WA]
[Current Mood |gloomygloomy]
[Current Music |All My Loving - Jim Sturgess version [courtesy of Pandora]]

Sometimes things happen in life that you choose to ignore or try to forget. I had this one event, typically I'll forget all about it for 2 or 3 years, then something in conversation or day dreaming will trigger the memory. Frequently over the years I've wondered if I imagined the whole thing, but I can't accept that as truth. I'm going to record it here just to get it out.

From kindergarten to about halfway through 2nd grade I attended Wellington Elementary School in Woodinville, WA. For those parents who worked 9-5 jobs and couldn't be with their children promptly after school, a local stay-at-home mom ran a daycare service. Her name was Julie, I'm pretty sure. She had 3 (at least) children of her own that I remember, a daughter older than me, a son Eric in my class, and a daughter younger than me. And she hated me. For those of you who know me, the scar I have on the corner of my right eye was from playing in her youngest daughter's bedroom. We had made a fort out of draping a blanket from the bed to a plastic toy box. We were also jumping on the bed, and I either jumped or stepped too quickly from the bed to the blanketed toy box, slipped, and crashed my face into the corner of the dresser. Actually, the scar on my face is probably what resurrects this memory every few years. But not this time around. About a month ago my "ex" was trying to read my aura, and after moments of silence the first thing he asked me was "did something happen to you as a kid?" For the first time in years, this rushed to the forefront of my brain and has kind of lingered there since. I'm anticipating the return to mental status where I forget this ever happened. But try not to think of elephants and what do you get? Elephants.

I got in trouble a lot at her place. Or rather, I was punished a lot. I don't believe I was a misbehaved child. When the whole group of kids was lectured and put in time out, she would release the rest and keep me in time out longer. I once told her "I'm bored" and this, I suppose, so profoundly offended her that she put me in time out. Understandably, I hated being there. When my mom came to pick me up, she would do the typical mom thing and chat with Julie for like 5 hours before we could go home. During one of her pow-wows I rushed to the car so I could wait in peace for mom to be ready to whisk me to freedom. The passenger door was locked, I ran to the driver's side and pushed the power lock button, shut the door and ran back to the passenger door. Still locked. Fuck. Mom's keys are on the passenger seat. Double fuck. Even after seeing them, I fantasized that perhaps they were a separate set of office keys and maybe, just maybe, mom still had them on her person and ran back to her. We had to wait for dad to get off work and come over before we could leave Julie's.

There was another girl in the neighborhood, Erica. She was actually really sweet. I remember I once had dinner at her place, and her parents taught her not to put her elbows on the dinner table. I was not so strictly confined in my eating habits, and she asked her mom "why does Tanya get to have her elbows on the table and I can't?" to which she replied "Tanya is our guest and we're not her parents, so she can choose where to keep her elbows." I kept them on the table and Erica began to cry. I still kept them on the table. It's one of those things I wish I could redo. There was a good amount of wooded area in this neighborhood, and Erica's dad was building a playhouse for her/her friends/the neighbor kids. For a long time it was only halfway done and we were "not allowed" to go in it, but of course we did.

I don't remember how it got started, but one day I found myself upstairs in this playhouse cornered by Julie's older daughter in the house, and Eric and another boy surrounding the house outside; yelling at each other through windows. Then the boys were in the house, too. Eric pinned me against the wall, holding my hands above my head with his. The daughter, I want to call her Megan but I can't be sure about that one, said aloud "Now... what should we do with her? Torture? ...nah, too bloody." Eric let go of my hands, then took a punch/swipe to/across my belly. I can't remember anymore than that. I can't remember getting out of the playhouse and returning to Julie's house. I remember being in the kitchen of her house, telling her what happened. But of course, it's my word against 3, 2 of whom are her own kin. I remember her response

"If he was holding your hands over your head, how could he have hit you?"
"Well, he let go and then he hit me."
"If that were true then your hands were free and you would have blocked him."

She didn't believe me, probably accused me of making up stories to get attention. So I became convinced that my own parents would never believe me. I didn't try to tell them.

That's it. That's all I can recollect of that day. A partial story at best. But once every several years it plagues me. I don't identify this as "some traumatic event." It doesn't define who I am, I don't tell people I was molested or abused as a kid. Most of the time I forget it ever happened. But when I do think about it, it brings me down.

Once when I was 15 or so I did try to tell my mom what happened. "You remember that lady with the day care in Woodinville? Julie?..." and told her the story. She said, "okay." I said "That's all you have to say?" and she said "Well, what do you expect me to do about it now?" I don't know, mom. I don't know their last name so I haven't tried to search for them on the internet. I possess an old Wellington yearbook if I wanted to see what facebook had to offer. McCormick? Just came to me. Could be it. I don't know what good would come if I found any of that family anyway. I'd probably be hoping to learn some were in jail or heroine addicts, and get disappointed to learn they're famously well-off. I suppose I'd like closure? Admittance over what happened, and to fill in the blanks that my brain erased. Did something actually and truly terrible happen to me that I've sincerely blocked the memory? I have always wanted to be hypnotized, but never succeeded. Could this be the reason? Might I be so desperately trying to protect myself from myself? Or is it simply that so many years have passed, that I was so young at the time, which is the cause of the memory lapse?

I do wish to write here more. Not depressing half-memories, but enjoyable thought-provoking prose. Just needed to get this out my finger tips.
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