Writing my life out on the pavement

Ch. 2

The mind protects itself by forgetting core memories that would, if allowed to relive them, cause harm to the person’s mental health.

I don’t remember a lot of my childhood. If I look at pictures, I can drum up some feelings and maybe even some flashbacks of what happened that day, but that’s about it.

What I do remember is some of the trauma. I guess it’s to never let me forget who fucked me up. Like that could ever happen.

My induction to trauma is as vivid as a memory just made a second ago. I had to have been 10 or 11 and we had just picked up my uncle from the airport. I remember my Dad was driving and I think my Grandma was in the front passenger seat. My uncle and I were alone in the backseat. I got tired and was falling asleep. He told me to lay my head on his lap, so I did. I mean, why wouldn’t I? Beats laying my head against hard plastic on the passenger door and the windshield. Yeah, I should have chosen the fuckin’ windshield.

I laid my head in his lap and I still remember where we were in the freeway. We had just left SFO and we we’re driving up past Pacific Bell Park when his hand went down my shirt. I felt a lump in my throat. What was going on? He was caressing my chest. I felt my heart start racing. I couldn’t move. I was nauseous. My eyes glanced over to my Dad who was talking to my Grandma and they didn’t notice.

Help!

My head was screaming for help, but nothing came out of my mouth. I pretended to be asleep after that. I remember tears coming down my face. But not too much because I was “asleep.” I eventually did fall asleep. I remember waking up as we got to Concord. Home. His hand no longer in my shirt, I got up. Acted like nothing happened. I didn’t utter a word. Welcome home Uncle!

And that’s all I remember.