I turn forty tomorrow, but I’m stuck at age 7. Nearly 33 years have passed since that day. The compartmentalization crumbled over the last 4, resulting in an almost-constant barrage of that hellish memory. When the thoughts overflow and overwhelm, uncontrollable sobbing renders me incapable of thinking clearly and functioning normally.
Sometimes I wish she had pulled the trigger. It would’ve been better than living with the nightmare that is constantly threatening to surface in the midst of my everyday mundane. (I don’t know if the gun was loaded or empty, and I’m not sure which would’ve been more cruel.)
I wish I could stop the intrusive thoughts, but I keep going back to that kitchen seat. To the surprise and shock. To the way I held my breath. To the knot in my stomach. To the look on her face. To the sound of her voice. To the way she held the gun. To the question she spewed, “Which one of you do you want me to shoot first?” To the words, “She won’t do it” that I kept silently repeating to myself. To how she said she was sick of the fighting and she couldn’t take anymore. To my sister warning me not to tell anyone or mom would go to jail. To locking myself in the school bathroom stall while I told a friend. To my friend suggesting I tell an adult. To denying it ever happened, that it was a dream. To coming home to her baking a birthday cake. To lying on my sister’s bed. To my father telling us not to talk about it because she was sorry. To how he normalized it so that I believed it was okay.
The memories won’t stop. Not when I see a gun on TV or on social media or in person. Not when I hear the sound of one being shot. Not when I run across the toy gun my daughter received as a joke for her birthday one year. The memory is always there, haunting even on my good days.
I wonder what made her think it was an acceptable form of discipline to point a gun at her daughters and threaten to shoot. I wonder why he protected her and not us.
She apologized and said she regrets it, but I can’t figure out how to forgive. Or forget. I’m stuck in that moment, wishing that it had never happened or that something had been different. I ponder what it would have been like if she had pulled the trigger or profusely apologized or somebody had come to our rescue.
When I am overcome and undone by normal life stressors, I fear myself. I live in fear that I am capable of traumatizing my children. I fear losing my loose grip on sanity. I am afraid.
I am hours away from 40. And I am seven.
Rebekah, first Happy Birthday. I knew it was coming up, but didn’t realize it was the big 4-0.
What a lovely milestone. And please know I am praying for you. I am so terribly sorry for the terrorization you received at your own mother’s hand. I can’t fathom it, and I am so sorry that these dreams haunt you. I am praying that the Lord, who has great purposes for your life and who has preserved you for such a time as this, will grant you complete healing, rest, and peace. I keep thinking of Mat. 11:28: Come to Me all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you peace. The Lord is right there with you. May He flood your heart, soul, and mind with all His peace.
All my love and a very happy birthday.
Lynn
PS I loved forty, though admittedly, I didn’t expect to get pregnant!
Thank you, Lynn. I always treasure your comments.
I wish I could do more, but thank you for your kind words. I always feel so inept. But I had meant to say too thatI hate guns. This should never have happened….and especially from whom it did. Love you so much.
Happy Birthday Rebekah !!! I am so sorry that a day you should be preparing to celebrate bring such memories fully alive in you again. Wishing I could just give you a big hug. Maybe we can figure out a day soon to get together.
Thanks, Amy. It didn’t happen near my birthday, but this whole turning 40 thing has the memories surfacing more often than usual. Strange. Yes, hopefully, we can work out a date soon!
I want to wish you a “Happy Birthday,” but those words seem so trivial and almost dismissive of your blog–though I and everyone else truly mean them. Words fail in the face of such horror, especially at such a tender age. Wish I knew a theological formula to rid you of the images–I’d use it on myself. Makes me wonder what terror was at work to move a mom to such an act and a father to cover it up? I wonder what frailty moved them to such furious actions? I wonder if, somewhere in the deep recesses of their souls, there are 2, frightened children trying to negotiate a frightening world? Don’t know. I simply pray that God will grant you some insight that might lead to a bit of healing. Amidst all of this psychological chaos, I still, very sincerely, wish you a very Happy Birthday. Shalom, my sister.