I was hurt. I was so hurt, mommy. I never trusted him. I was scared of him. I always cried. I always cried. He did things to me. He did things to me, mommy. He put his mouth on and in my vagina. He licked me and kissed me there. He sometimes put a finger inside a little bit. He would touch his penis while he did these things. He would touch it, stroke it, up and down, up and down, until he came. Sometimes on me.
He said I can’t ever tell anyone. Ever. No one would believe me over him. He would hurt me more if I told. He would fucking kill me. He said that in the little bathroom. My head was against the bottom seams of those yellow gold stiff curtains that never let in light.
He licked me from behind, while I was standing, my head buried in my pink checkery bedspread. With the running ruffles down the sides. His nose felt funny in there. I wanted to be dead. I wanted to not exist. I went to the blank place in my head. The blank place that felt like nothing. It was hazy and dark and felt neither good nor bad. It felt like nothing. I felt like nothing.
I remember a weird time on the old printed couch. In my mind, the couch had colors of purple or something in there. Some kind of wild-seeming print to me. One cushion was on the floor. I was where the cushion was. I had on a diaper and some kind of rubbery pants. He took those off and gently touched my vagina lips. So soft, he said. Baby soft. And he jerked on his penis until he was done. Then I had a diaper on again.
And then, same time frame, I was sitting on his lap watching tv and he held onto my bottom and grounded himself, his penis inside his pants, into me. Grind, grind, grind. Moan. Moan. Oh, baby. You are a baby. Moan. Done. Off lap. Left alone.
I didn’t go to the nothing place until I was a little bit bigger. I went there that time in the old green and white shed that smelled like gasoline and dried cut grass and hot. In there, he put his fingers in my vagina from behind me. He said I liked it. I don’t remember. I was back to being nothing in my nothing-feeling space. Dark, fuzzy nothing. I knew I was nothing. Only nothing can be completely surrounded by nothing. By the sort of nothing that has zero feelings at all.
My most vivid memories of being a child consist entirely of crying, weeping, sobbing, heaving tears and snot and sweat into my two checkery bedspreads. The pink one, then the blue one, when I was older. I knew in a way a child shouldn’t be capable of knowing that I was nothing. That no one understood me. That I was far too sensitive and scared and damaged to be a real girl. I was just a nothing girl full of terror and desperation. I so desperately wanted someone to hold me, and not in the way that involved semen on my body. Hold me and love me and make me feel safe. Make me feel like someone.
I grew up as nothing. As a nothing girl whose only chance at getting by was to try to please every person in any way possible. Be nice to mommy. Read her moods so I could anticipate what would upset her so that next time I could make sure that didn’t ever happen again. Scan the environment. What is here that will upset her? Fix it. Fix it. Fix her.
I cry all of the time. I hide in my closet for hours. Under my bed. Inside the forsythia bush. Down at the creek. If I cannot be found, I cannot be destroyed again. Always hiding. Always trying to do what I am supposed to do so that no one notices me. Wear whatever mommy says to wear. Do what I am supposed to do. Always. Always, always.
But no one ever held me. At home. No one. No hugs and kisses and loveys. No comforting. No soothing. No one even noticing that I am not even there any more. That I am a nothing girl in no place at all.