I will be writing my story, from which I always seem to digress, and come to a part that I leave out or write and delete. It is sometimes just not the focus of what I'm writing right then. It is also sometimes just needing to back away from writing something that will evoke too much pain to write.
In my mind I think of these as avoiding The Horror.
But I've seen horror stories. Mine aren't those. Maybe. Maybe? they are just horrific to me?
I Remember back when I was going through a lot of therapy often having to see different therapists that sometimes I would almost be offended that they were looking at me with pity, like I had lived a miserable life. Sometimes I'd stop and say "Wait, yes that happened, but my life was still full of joy."
Why did that matter?
The Horrors:
I was molested as far back as I remember and then raped when i was 8. Raped several times through my teens. Molested countless times.
I was discriminated against all through my youth for being Japanese although not everyone realized that's what I was. I'm mixed, that confused people, very dark as a child i was called a nigger. But, growing up after WWII most people got it right. I was the Dirty Jap. As many adults as children were prejudiced. Maybe more.
My brothers and I were whipped with a belt, usually at 5:30 when our father got home from work and Mom read him the list of our sins that day.
Daddy died of a heart attack when I was 10. Mom mover us to a less expensive neighborhood and got a job. She was grieving and just couldn't believe she had been widowed in a strange country with 3 children to raise alone.
Not long after, Mom came into Herbert's room where the three of us were hanging out with a gun. She said she was going to shoot all of us and then herself.
Pretty sure she was serious.
I cried, Herbert tried to calm her, talking soothingly, while Mike got close enough to grab the gun.
Mike took the gun and threw it as far as he could into the corner of the attic.
I often have wondered if it is still there.
We went on like nothing happened. I dont remember us even talking about it again.
This might be my first clue that we all had a skewed view of "normal".
Aside from the Horror Story, I remember our lives up to that point as pretty amazing, too. The boys and i had friends and adventures everywhere we were. "Compartmentalization"? I don't know.
Mike and Mom had never gotten along and after Daddy died it got worse. They never forgave each other for those years.
I don't think Mike was yet 18 when Mom threw him out.
Herbert and I both grieved for him terribly.
