I was 6 years old

A story about my childhood that I can’t share with people who know me

I was six years old.

I remember the color of the carpet in the living room. It was purple. My mom’s favorite color. I don’t remember the color of the carpet in any other room in the house. Not even my bedroom.

I remember the curtains in the living room. They were white with purple trim. The trim had little balls on the ends. I can see them tied back. I remember the black metal railing leading to the stairs. I can see the entrance to the kitchen alongside them.

I remember this room so vividly and whejn I remember it, my perspective is from the floor. Looking through the space between the legs of the old record player that sat in front of the window.

I was six years old. My sister was 12. She dragged me by my hair across that purple carpet too many times to count. By my hair. I would scream and fight but I was no match for her, and the more I struggled, the more painful it was. I was hopeful when I saw the stair railing getting closer. It’s where she would stop sometimes.

I remember getting rashes and asking mom one day what they were. She told me, matter-of-factly, that they were carpet burns. She didn’t ask how I had gotten them. She already knew.

Those episodes were really painful. But they weren’t the worst thing. The worst thing was when my sister would sit on me so that I couldn’t breathe. Actually it was more like kneeling. Her legs were folded, which allowed her to use her entire body weight. I’d gasp in some air and she’d push down harder to force it back out again. Waterboarding - though water isn’t needed when your victim is so small.

My 10-year old sister started doing this to me as well. I can still see their faces looking down at me as I looked up at theirs from the floor, begging them to let me go. It hurt so much, deep into my chest. I would panic and flail my arms uselessly. There was no getting away. I didn’t know when I’d get my next gulp of air and going without it was excruciating. I’d do anything to make it stop. I suppose that’s why they did it.

I try to take a deep breath right now. I still feel like I can’t breathe.

As I face these memories, the part that haunts me now was hearing my mom in the kitchen going about her day while this was happening. Seeing mom walk through the room to go down the stairs. She was like a ghost. She was there but then she wasn’t. Maybe I was the ghost. She didn’t even see me.

I’ve forgiven my sisters. Perhaps strangely, I never held much of a grudge in the first place. We all grew up in the same home. We all coped with our anger and fears in the only ways we knew how. And my sisters still bear scars from where I dug into their hands and arms with my fingernails. Maybe that was my equalizer. When they mention the scars, I’m not sorry.

As for my mother, I’ll never understand. I close my eyes and I try to imagine a scenario where I might allow someone to hurt my child while I stood by. I simply can’t. The idea is so repugnant to me that I can’t even finish the thought. I’m grateful for that. I think if I were to understand, it would make me a monster.

She could have stopped the abuse so easily. She could have rescued me. She didn’t. Not even one time. She might as well have done it herself. I don’t think it was because she didn’t care. I think she must have loathed me.

Now mom is looking for absolution. She says she thinks she was a bad mom. She says she regrets so many things. She is trying to clear her conscience. But I know that even this is about her. She wants to feel better about herself and what’s she’s done. It’s not really about me at all.

She still doesn’t see me.

And sometimes, I still can’t breathe.

Author's Note

I’m not looking to be published. After a lifetime of silence I guess I want to start sharing my stories just to be heard. Any feedback is appreciated.