First Childhood Memory

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A first childhood memory must be as rare as a unicorn sighting for someone who’s had an ok childhood. But for the adult survivor of any traumatic childhood event, first memories are like ghosts of a Christmas never had. When I was 10, My biological father molested me. The abuse lasted up until the summer before my 13th birthday. I mention this because events prior to this are very hazy. One can’t simply choose which things she (or he) would like to forget without the threat of repressing more than bad memories.

But if I squeeze my eyes hard enough and tip-toe quietly and tip-toe past the sleeping beast, I might be able to recall in the least, an early memory, a memory of me before rape became a part of me.

There used to be this great big ol’ tree in my great aunts yard. This was the home of childhood family gatherings, Thanksgiving in particular. Well, I used to climb that tree. No fear. No trepidation. No hesitation. No solid ground beneath my feet. Just me & that tree. I loved it up there. The higher the better. Closer to the clouds is where every Dreamer desires to be. I was fearless then. Childhood was innocent. Life was sweet. And I was still a little girl.

CEO & Writer at FreedomInk Publishing, Katandra Jackson Nunnally. Like us at Facebook…¬†¬†woman climb tree.jpg.653x0_q80_crop-smart