Commonly, we dont have many memories
from before the age of 5.
I dont have many.
But I have a few.
Sometimes I have flashbacks.
Sometimes its a flood.
There weren’t many years
of memory-making childhood
before I learned to be afraid.
Of men.
Of law enforcement.
Of domestic conflicts.
Of raised voices.
Turned to yelling.
Turned to screaming.
Turned to fighting.
Turned to broken glass,
bleeding knuckles.
Means of egress sabotaged
to ensure no escape.
The denial of safety
or calm or peace.
The war is in here.
You can hide or run away.
But if you fought back
you paid the price.
If you left who would defend her?
Some of us stood in between,
some of us just stood and watched.
I was too little, too weak.
But I was learning all along.
What love looks like.
What families do to each other.
For each other.
How tones can change.
How that meant everything had changed.
I didnt know it then,
but my heart had already begun
telling my body how to flee.
How to freeze.
How to fawn.
How to fight.
Somehow the body knows.
Even before the crisis happens.
My heart pounds in anticipation.
It grips my ribcage like barbed wire
as it braces for the impact of the next blow.
My voice sinks into my chest.
My jaw clenches.
Tears swell.
I begin to shiver or sweat.
Shiver. Sweat.
Shiver. Sweat.
Hold back the tears.
You’re on defense still.
Dont you remember,
who will protect her if you leave?
I never once wondered…
“who’s going to protect me?”
It wasnt all bad.
It wasnt all scary.
But I never unlearned who to fear.
I learned what love was.
Love was apologies as peace offerings.
So I was sorry.
Love was jumping in first.
So I leapt.
Love was dialing 911.
So I called.
Love was fighting.
So I got brave.
Love was staying.
So I stayed.
But I’m so just tired
of being afraid.
