| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 11, 2023 | Chapters: |
Prologue 1 -2- 3... 
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Knowledge best left for grown ups Age 5
A chapter in the book Ghost
The Attempt
by Lea Tonin1
I pace back and forth in front of my PC as I've done for weeks now since I wrote the first chapter. I've written only one and some smaller pieces, but I underestimated the toll and the power of the old pain. The whips of anger, once so familiar to me, have returned with a roar as if never having left, to begin with.
Once again, I find myself riding that old sway-back horse of fear, ever present when I need a ride. I begin to repeat the old mantra in my mind, as I did as a young girl, telling myself time and again, "This will pass one day, I'll be grown."
Not realizing I am holding my breath, let it out now with a woosh.
What will come out of my proverbial pen today?
Struggling, even though I know it must be recounted, the details of all that I've seen, felt and heard is difficult. But to do any less is an injustice to my reader.
I brace myself.
The truth, as I know it to be, must be given voice, and yet trepidation grips me.
Memories gather at the surface of my mind like little knives stabbing here and there, waiting for my pen to lift.
If anything, it's a cautionary tale that points the way to recognizing the signposts as they come up: Little clues and reactions out of the norm, body language, and patterns of speech. If one person benefits, then the trickle-down effect begins, and I have accomplished what I set out to do.
I attempt to keep that in mind as I prepare myself for the next onslaught of memories. And with a deep, shaky sigh, I sit down and brace myself for the coming deluge that is the floodgate of my mind. I finally began putting words to paper once more.
*****************************
"I was five years old, and I didn't care. I only knew That I was not loved."
How many years I lived with that feeling! And I was always asking why.
What no one knew at the time, except for me, is that a teenage boy on a bicycle -a different one than the one whose bike had hot me now-- gave me dimes and was trying to molest me. I was also being molested by an older man a few doors down. His nasty ugly penis still lingers in my memory to this day.
At the time, I was undisturbed by their actions. I simply didn't know any better. I didn't know there was a different world beyond mine.
I stood there covered in blood, the bike tire and fender jammed between my legs. The handlebars up against my chest hurt which set me crying. But the pain told me I was still alive. How my 5-year-old mind knew the difference between life and death is another matter.
In those moments after the accident, I wondered about my mother's husband and realized I still had to deal with him. I still had to wonder: "Is today the day another shower and metal spoon?"
I wondered too about the old guy up the hill who would give me cookies if I put that ugly thing in my mouth, and I wondered about the teenager on the bike who would give me shiny coins if I let him take me out to the field behind the fence. If I let him do stuff.
Finally, I wondered why my mother never asked me how I got the money for candy. I was only five, after all.
And my five-year-old mind simply did not understand the right or the wrong of any of it or that there was a different way to live. I only knew that none of it felt good. All of those thoughts and knowing I must face them again made quick flash-tracks through my mind as I stood there pinned on the bike, bleeding.
I recalled that the oddest sensation came over me as I'd watched that bike come racing down the hill. I'd had a revelation that this could be the answer! For the first time, my insides had relaxed and they relaxed even more so the closer and faster the bike appeared. it was like a beast disguised as an angel, to take me away from the pain that was my life.
A short few seconds after impact, a woman came to me, picked me up by my armpits and took me home. Mother, rather than being concerned when she saw me, gave me an exaspertated stare. At that moment, I wished that the bike had been a car and that I weren't around any more.
My mother didn't take me to a hospital or doctor until a day later, when my Aunt came to visit and heard me crying. Only then, and after my aunt said she should, was I brought to a hospital. I suffered and cried for a day-and-half before any relief came.
I'd suffered a fractured wrist, multiple cuts, scrapes and bruises. These were my battle scars for the choice I made that day as a five-year-old girl suffering from deep sadness and fear and never knowing the why behind any of it. I made this choice knowing that even then, at a mere five-year-old, not living would be preferable than the existence I had.
Time heals the body but the memory of that day remains with me. Even now, I recognize it as a profound moment. I knew there were choices and that ,with that choice, I felt a small measure of control over my own life and the direction in which it turned.
Inevitably, things never remain the same. A change came one day when I went into the house and saw a young Japanese boy approximately my age, standing in front of our old jukebox.
Mother did up the buttons of his coat, "take him outside to the sandbox." Mother said, "and don't come back in until you're called."
I was glad for the new face and as interested in him as he was with me. To find out about each other was much preferable than being by myself. We played in the sandbox for several hours, giggling, piling sand and getting to know one another.
This occurrence happened almost daily. Half an hour after my mother's husband went to work, the young Japanese boy would show up with his father, and off to the sandbox we would go, with the same instructions. Even in the rain, we stayed until we were called.
In my five-year-old mind, it occurred to me that something was wrong. I couldn't understand what it was; I just knew that there was something not right about it..
The answer came clear one day when my mothers husband blasted out the front door in an all too blunt fashion, smashed the screen door and never to returned again.
He was replaced by the Japanese man and his son who had visited almost every day.
The next nine years of my life were marked by the path my mother and her new husband carved for me. I did not know at the time that I would need every ounce of strength, mental power and fight I could draw upon to survive what was coming....
*****************************
I lean back in my chair, tears rolling down my face. My shirt is damp, and my hands shaking, knowing the hardest and scariest times of my life are yet to come.
How fleet of foot my feet became carrying me away from the fist in my face....
I pace back and forth in front of my PC as I've done for weeks now since I wrote the first chapter. I've written only one and some smaller pieces, but I underestimated the toll and the power of the old pain. The whips of anger, once so familiar to me, have returned with a roar as if never having left, to begin with.
Once again, I find myself riding that old sway-back horse of fear, ever present when I need a ride. I begin to repeat the old mantra in my mind, as I did as a young girl, telling myself time and again, "This will pass one day, I'll be grown."
Not realizing I am holding my breath, let it out now with a woosh.
What will come out of my proverbial pen today?
Struggling, even though I know it must be recounted, the details of all that I've seen, felt and heard is difficult. But to do any less is an injustice to my reader.
I brace myself.
The truth, as I know it to be, must be given voice, and yet trepidation grips me.
Memories gather at the surface of my mind like little knives stabbing here and there, waiting for my pen to lift.
If anything, it's a cautionary tale that points the way to recognizing the signposts as they come up: Little clues and reactions out of the norm, body language, and patterns of speech. If one person benefits, then the trickle-down effect begins, and I have accomplished what I set out to do.
I attempt to keep that in mind as I prepare myself for the next onslaught of memories. And with a deep, shaky sigh, I sit down and brace myself for the coming deluge that is the floodgate of my mind. I finally began putting words to paper once more.
*****************************
"I was five years old, and I didn't care. I only knew That I was not loved."
How many years I lived with that feeling! And I was always asking why.
What no one knew at the time, except for me, is that a teenage boy on a bicycle -a different one than the one whose bike had hot me now-- gave me dimes and was trying to molest me. I was also being molested by an older man a few doors down. His nasty ugly penis still lingers in my memory to this day.
At the time, I was undisturbed by their actions. I simply didn't know any better. I didn't know there was a different world beyond mine.
I stood there covered in blood, the bike tire and fender jammed between my legs. The handlebars up against my chest hurt which set me crying. But the pain told me I was still alive. How my 5-year-old mind knew the difference between life and death is another matter.
In those moments after the accident, I wondered about my mother's husband and realized I still had to deal with him. I still had to wonder: "Is today the day another shower and metal spoon?"
I wondered too about the old guy up the hill who would give me cookies if I put that ugly thing in my mouth, and I wondered about the teenager on the bike who would give me shiny coins if I let him take me out to the field behind the fence. If I let him do stuff.
Finally, I wondered why my mother never asked me how I got the money for candy. I was only five, after all.
And my five-year-old mind simply did not understand the right or the wrong of any of it or that there was a different way to live. I only knew that none of it felt good. All of those thoughts and knowing I must face them again made quick flash-tracks through my mind as I stood there pinned on the bike, bleeding.
I recalled that the oddest sensation came over me as I'd watched that bike come racing down the hill. I'd had a revelation that this could be the answer! For the first time, my insides had relaxed and they relaxed even more so the closer and faster the bike appeared. it was like a beast disguised as an angel, to take me away from the pain that was my life.
A short few seconds after impact, a woman came to me, picked me up by my armpits and took me home. Mother, rather than being concerned when she saw me, gave me an exaspertated stare. At that moment, I wished that the bike had been a car and that I weren't around any more.
My mother didn't take me to a hospital or doctor until a day later, when my Aunt came to visit and heard me crying. Only then, and after my aunt said she should, was I brought to a hospital. I suffered and cried for a day-and-half before any relief came.
I'd suffered a fractured wrist, multiple cuts, scrapes and bruises. These were my battle scars for the choice I made that day as a five-year-old girl suffering from deep sadness and fear and never knowing the why behind any of it. I made this choice knowing that even then, at a mere five-year-old, not living would be preferable than the existence I had.
Time heals the body but the memory of that day remains with me. Even now, I recognize it as a profound moment. I knew there were choices and that ,with that choice, I felt a small measure of control over my own life and the direction in which it turned.
Inevitably, things never remain the same. A change came one day when I went into the house and saw a young Japanese boy approximately my age, standing in front of our old jukebox.
Mother did up the buttons of his coat, "take him outside to the sandbox." Mother said, "and don't come back in until you're called."
I was glad for the new face and as interested in him as he was with me. To find out about each other was much preferable than being by myself. We played in the sandbox for several hours, giggling, piling sand and getting to know one another.
This occurrence happened almost daily. Half an hour after my mother's husband went to work, the young Japanese boy would show up with his father, and off to the sandbox we would go, with the same instructions. Even in the rain, we stayed until we were called.
In my five-year-old mind, it occurred to me that something was wrong. I couldn't understand what it was; I just knew that there was something not right about it..
The answer came clear one day when my mothers husband blasted out the front door in an all too blunt fashion, smashed the screen door and never to returned again.
He was replaced by the Japanese man and his son who had visited almost every day.
The next nine years of my life were marked by the path my mother and her new husband carved for me. I did not know at the time that I would need every ounce of strength, mental power and fight I could draw upon to survive what was coming....
*****************************
I lean back in my chair, tears rolling down my face. My shirt is damp, and my hands shaking, knowing the hardest and scariest times of my life are yet to come.
How fleet of foot my feet became carrying me away from the fist in my face....
 Recognized |
This chapter is part of an auto bio called Ghost. It can be found in my portfolio if you wish to read. Please note, some chapters are hard to digest. Reader discretion is advised.
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