Triggered by Netflix’ Maid 11/25/21 published 1/6/23

Just write, don’t think, just write. Maid. I thought this was normal. Why did I think this was normal? My mom telling me I brought her purse to her after my dad pushed her down the stairs. I was 2. Why can’t I remember the bad times? Honestly I can’t remember a whole lot of my childhood. I remember some of my more intense dreams. The anger. I remember darkness, the cloying heaviness of tension, furtive glances cast out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge how labile their mood might be. My chest feels tight just thinking about it. Reading old diaries tonight, I’m 15 and casually wrote about Mom picking a fight with Chad, who would have been 9, and “throwing him across the room” and telling her if she wants to fight, to pick a fight with me. I don’t remember this. Why don’t I remember this? Thanksgiving at Dad’s. His mood shifts, I can’t keep up. Which person am I supposed to be? I’m confused and I feel like I’m 2 feet tall again, vulnerable and scared. I don’t like the unpredictableness, maybe why I never really liked surprises. Flitting from guy to guy, I had no interests except for guys and God. Looking for something, anything, to fill that hole in my soul. I feel defective, like I thought this was just life—that everyone experienced childhoods like this. I’m heartbroken for the little girl I used to be, and all I want to do is wrap her in my arms and tell her everything will be okay and she is good enough. Instead I hug my sons and pray they can feel how much they are loved and that they know they are worthy and good.

I can’t even stomach thinking about the 10 years I spent with Nate. Flashbacks of trying to flush my wedding rings down the toilet, feeling so lost when they won’t go down the drain. I’ve just gotten off work and I know I should have already been packed, wait, is he really leaving without us? I remember our wedding night that we didn’t even spend together because he ‘couldn’t miss work’. The dread of Saturday mornings when he would pay bills and be upset for buying a few art supplies because money was tight, yet somehow there was always money for fences and horses and snowmobile parts. Him coming home drunk, wanting to fight. Refusing to engage, I need sleep—I have work in the morning. I turn over in bed as he flips on the light and watch in horror as my hearing aid smashes against the wall. Calling 911 as he pins my brother down on the couch, pressing the pistol against his cheek. His eyes are demonic I don’t know what to do. Trying to answer the officer’s questions, but I can’t hear…how could I have felt sorry for him the next morning when he told me I should leave and that he wasn’t good enough for me. He promises he’ll change, he’ll never do it again, yet a snowy winter day he comes inside, pissed off at the world and ready to fight. I watch as he twists my glasses, snapping the frames. His hands are around my neck and all I remember thinking is how did I get here? I call 911 because it’s so out of control. The officer looks at Nate’s hands and jokes, “Well, damn, if you’d have hit her I would be able to tell.” He states I could potentially be under arrest because I hit Nate too, in self defense. Never mind that I’m 5’4, and he’s 6’5. He loves to tell everyone he has three children, repacks my suitcase in front of my family because I didn’t fold my clothes right. Yet not even two weeks ago I sent him a text telling him I was sorry, it was all my fault. That he didn’t do anything wrong, it was all me—I was the one to blame because I never felt good enough for him. So many memories are flooding back to me. My head is pounding and I can’t keep doing this. God, give me a verse, something to comfort my soul. How do I pick