Sometimes (all the time) I tend to over share. I don’t know why I do it but I’m sure some psychotherapist will attribute it to my trauma. Everything is always the fucking trauma. Anyway, every time I do this I’m told that I should write a book. I’ve heard it hundreds and hundreds of times and have tried to start just as many. I become overwhelmed and begin, but never succeed. So instead, I intend to record each story here on my blog and that will be my “book.” It will probably be messy but I’m jealous of those who have a platform to tell the world what people have done to you.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

  So here goes my first story. The day my “auntie” tried to murder the baby inside my belly.

                            Attempted Murder

    I was in my teens. A child. Way too young to be pregnant, but nevertheless pregnant. I’m not sure if I will ever be able to share that story but I am able to share this one.

  My mother had flown down to retrieve me from family members I was shipped off to. I was often sent away to random places. Some mornings I would wake up to my bags packed with a ticket to an unknown place. And I would be utterly distraught. The TSA agents would see me in distress, then the flight attendants, then the people on the plane, and then the people at the next aiport. And not one single adult would notice. They all looked the other way. As an adult now I understand it. I could never watch a little girl who was clearly so upset she couldn’t breathe and do nothing about it. Bare minimum, I would at least offer comfort. SOMETHING. But I learned very quickly that the only humans that will help you are the ones who have been hurt like you. My father was stuffing his face full of free airport popcorn when he dropped me off this time. I still can’t eat popcorn without feeling a hollow ache inside.

  The current house I was residing in had become tumultuous. There was also an argument being had by my mother and the woman of the house about who should have custody of me. My mother came to pick me up and then we traveled to my aunties house. My grandparents were in town visiting with their giant RV they were traveling the country with. I could sense something was wrong but as usual I had no idea what was happening. We would later find out that I was pregnant. At the time I was completely unaware that a precious child was inside me, but I did know something was wrong with me.

  We had all went out to dinner that evening. I could see the whispers happening and I was trying hard to read each of my family’s faces. Something I learned to do at a very young age. The only thing I could come up with was that I had again, done something wrong and it had to be all my fault. A lot of these memories I didn’t understand until a few years into therapy. What I now know is that they all had a suspicion that I was pregnant.

  After dinner we went back to my aunties house to stay the night before my mother took me back “home” the next day. We were all in my grandparents RV checking out all the things from their travels. I went to the back, bored, and laid down on the bed. I wanted to cry and scream and run away but I kept my mask up as to not cause anymore commotion. So, there I lay, on my back, arms folded behind my head. Completely vulnerable. I had let my guard down for one minute when unexpectedly my very large auntie came barreling down the hall, took a big jump. Arms spread out as if she was doing a belly flop into a pool. Landed right onto my chest and stomach. The air was completely knocked out of my body. I was severely asthmatic, which everyone knew. My vision was going black with stars and I couldn’t get new air to go in. No one helped me.

  Eventually I recovered. I don’t really remember how or what happened next. My mind is very good at blocking out the bad. But my body always remembers. If I close my eyes and visualize laying there in that RV I can still feel the pain. Sometimes my injuries hurt forever and never stop. Fortunately this one comes and goes like waves.

   For the next 25 years I questioned myself as to why my auntie did that. But now I know. I know that those whispers I witnessed were talks of my body. I know that they came to the conclusion that I was pregnant. I also have to assume that they plotted to kill my baby. He survived the attempted murder and I’m thankful for that EVERY. Single. Day.

  A few years later I met my partner and we decided to have a baby. Auntie tried to kill that baby too. But that will be another story to tell as I venture through this outlet. I want the world to know what every pathetic adult did to me. How horribly they abused and failed me when I was just a scared little girl. Well, I’m not a little girl any longer. And I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of the cowards who hide behind their white picket fences and dollar bills. So I will tell my story. Bird by Bird.

Xoxo,

Matilda