Like Father, Like Mother; Like Son, Like Daughter

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 always knows. Even before the crisis happens. My heart pounds in anticipation. It grips my ribcage like barbed wire as it braces for impact. 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?” I knew what love was. Love was staying. So I stayed. But I’m so tired of being afraid.