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.
