Childhood Memories Aren’t Always Good.


“Never be ashamed of the scars that life has left you with. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound has closed, you endured the pain, and you are healed.”

This blog about a childhood memory of mine isn’t going to be a tender or loving one, but it’s a true one that I experienced as a very young girl. This is the first time I’ve ever spoken about it to strangers, much less people that I know in my daily life, but tonight, I just felt like talking about it. (Is the moon full?)

I was around eight years old, give or take a year. My sister was outside with our father, and my mom was probably in the kitchen cooking. I can see my room, it was all in my favorite color, green. Green painted walls, green and white bedding. Donny Osmond pillow cases on the bed. There was a small table that was attacted to the wall, and it had a long piece of green fabric that went from the top to the bottom of the floor, and you could hide things behind the fabric. I used to hide some toys back there, mostly Flatsy Dolls, or stuffed animals. It was a safe place for me, at least, most of the time.

Well, one day, I have no idea why, but I was just a kid after all. For whatever reason, I went into the bathroom that I shared with my sister, and I found a bottle of those pink baby aspirins that our mother kept in the cupboard. I took the bottle back to my room, and I went behind the fabric, and with a few of my favorite toys, I decided to play “tea room” with them. I passed out two baby aspirins to each doll, and I went around and proceeded to eat them, treating them like candy. I don’t remember how many I ate, but it was a lot.

My mother came looking for me and when she came into my room, she heard me talking to my dolls under the fabric, so she lifted the fabric, and she looked at me, looked at the dolls, and looked at the baby aspirin bottle that was now almost empty. She screamed for my father to come. And he did come, running into the room, and he came in and found my mother screaming at me, tears running down her face. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was really scared and frightened of my father.

He looked at me, looked at what was going on, and he lost it. He picked me up, shook me like a rag doll, and threw me into my closet, hard. He did this a few times, I remember my mom, screaming for him to stop, that they needed to take me to the hospital, but he was busy yelling at me, calling me names, and kept throwing me into the closet. I don’t remember much else, because I passed out. I only remember him driving us away, I was screaming in pain now, but that’s it. I know that when I got home, I wasn’t allowed to go to school for a little while. My mother said that they had my stomach pumped, but I really don’t remember that. I only remember his face, and his hands grabbing me and shaking me, and yelling at me.

As it turned out, that day my father had broken two of my ribs. They told the hospital that I had fallen from riding the swings, I don’t know how they explained the baby aspirins. Doesn’t matter really.

I wish that I had happier childhood memories, but unfortunately, I don’t. I had a very abusive father. He wasn’t a good man, yet, he is still my father. Do I love him? I don’t think so, but I can’t hate him either. I don’t want to ever hate anyone, but I understand when people do say that they hate someone, for whatever reason. My father beat all of us, my mother, my sister, but mostly me, and even our dogs. It was ugly. But I don’t want to get off track. And I don’t feel like crying.

Even though I don’t have happy childhood memories, I’m not a bitter person. I’m a really happy person. I’m a giving person. I believe in kindness, and helping others. But I never had children, I guess I was afraid to? I’m not really sure.

So now that I’m older, much older, I aim at making MANY, happy memories. Doesn’t matter where or who I’m with, I’m going to give this life everything that I have. And I’m happy to say, I’ve got many things to be grateful for in my life.

For the record, I have no contact with my father. I haven’t spoken to him in over 20 years. The last time we spoke, he got mad at me over the phone, and told me, “how can you be so dumb? You’ve always been the stupid one.” Well, I thought for a second, and told him, “You know what, dad? Go fuck yourself.”

I hung up, and have never spoken to him again.

I don’t wish him any harm, but I refused to let him be abusive to me any more, even it was just over the phone. I’m done with letting anyone treat me like that ever again. Maybe it sounds cold, but that’s the way it is. And I’m good with my decision.



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