It was the Christmas of my third grade. Dad was new to the parish and as a new minister, he was not earning very much. Nevertheless he bought what he could for us children.
One of the families of the church came to visit. They farmed in three states.
After supper, we children went downstairs to play. The older boy started
playing with my toys. Suddenly, “Oops I broke it. I wonder if I can break the rest.” He did.
Dad had no money to buy anything else for us so he went over to the church where they were remodeling, bought some 2x4s and had them cut into 9” lengths. I played with those blocks for the next 22 years. Then I gave them to my children.
Going through trauma is like being a broken toy. Our brains are broken. We are not functioning properly. We wonder if we are worth anything to anyone. We have no right to see old friends. We are spoiled, rotted, damaged.
In truth, I was faithful to her. I did not intentionally go out to get raped. I had no idea that he would pump me full of drugs. I died that night. But like a car running over a rough railroad track. I did not know it until later. The tank had a hole in it and I was leaking gas. The frame had a hairline crack that would grow until it failed. My life had ended, but I kept going not knowing I had been injured.
When I finally collapsed from the injuries, there was no one to pick me up. No one with whom I could relate. Come to think of it, I could not admit to myself what had happened. Like a broken toy, I was left to be discarded. Left to be replaced.
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Written 9/05/17