I guess I’m lucky. I don’t remember the first assault.
(Originally posted 28-April-2015.)
The one I know happened, but don’t remember exactly when, or who was involved.
The one that came to light years after, when a lover attempted to pin me to the bed by holding my wrists, with no malice aforethought, and I reacted with shrieking, incessant sobbing, and rolling into a fetal position not able to be touched or consoled.
I don’t have nightmares.
I don’t see a face looming over mine when I close my eyes.
I just know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, when I was very young, something was taken from me. And it was bad enough, I put up a hell of a block.
I learned while pressing gently against that block under hypnosis much later on, that I knew my attacker. We decided, my caregiver and I, that the barrier around those memories didn’t need to be knocked down. It was long ago, and I am safe now.
But it’s a part of me. A part that I had to delicately share with anyone I was going to be intimate with, so that they knew to never, ever touch my wrists.
This is probably the event that triggered my dissociation. I “go away” sometimes — for a moment, or longer —and when I’m back, I don’t know where I was.
It is minimally invasive in my life, and falls far short of having diagnosed dissociative identity disorder (DID), but it is there, and always will be. Someone else, inside me, knows and remembers. Someone strong enough to shelter me from it.