I ran down the hall in my bare feet to greet my father. Excited to see him home. He swept me up that morning, lifted me onto his shoulders. I was giddy from the change of perspective. I could see on top of the bookcases in the hall. It was dusty up there. That is the sole pleasant memory I have of my father. The last kind act of a cruel man.

I was probably 4 or 5 years old at the time. My father had taken a job out of state. He came home late each Friday night. So late it was really Saturday morning. My mother would allow me to try to stay up until he came home, knowing that I would never make it. This night I did, or rather I awoke when he got home. I am not sure which.

I soon learned having my father absent was a good thing, a safer thing. I don’t remember when his abuse of me started. It probably was always there. I just don’t remember it. I hold very few memories of my childhood. Those few memories I hold are generally not pleasant things. They are the fuel for my constant nightmares. I have come to understand those who suffer abuse as a child will often have missing memories. I have an entire missing childhood. Occasionally a picture or object I had as a child might elicit a memory or two. I tend to keep these things to help me anchor my memories. Without them, the memories are lost.

Some memories are created by stories told by family members. These become memories not to be trusted. The perspective of the person telling the story may not be the same as mine, or are colored by other things. I have an older brother that denies there was ever abuse in the family. I have physical and emotional scars that record a different history.

After my diagnosis for Complex PTSD, I have began to slowly reconstruct some memories through trauma focused therapy – but these are few. This is also a work in progress.

I am also an expert at compartmentalization. I have taken all these memories and experiences and shoved them into their own box – then buried them deep. This is one of my defense mechanisms for managing the trauma I have experienced. There is danger in this, what is in the box is undealt with. It is like holding a beach ball under the water. It takes energy and eventually it will get away from you. When it does, it comes flying up at the worst possible time. This is another aspect of my trauma I must deal with – memories in a box.