I was twenty-seven years old
when the nightmares began.
My father, naked, in my childhood bed. He beckons me forward. I want to run, to throw up. But what can I do? I step forward.
I wake, screaming in terror.
Every night repeats, night after night. That's when the door appears.
The front door of our rental home. I'm eleven. The door is scratched, dirty, and open. I am about to find my father, spread-eagled, face down on the living room floor. Dead.
Heart attack.
That's all my PTSD is about. Has ever been about. Nothing more.
Nothing more.
I look at this photograph, taken the day before he died.
I look at the girl that was me.
Why does my lip curl with disgust?
My dad raped me.
Not just at age eleven. Age eight. Not just age eight. Age four.
He raped me from the ages of four through eleven.
Then he died.
I didn't remember for so long, because I wouldn't have survived the pain.
The shame bore down on my like a swarm of roaches, reaching into my throat.
Whore, trash person.
