Death

I stood over her, my 12-year-old body shaking because I could not believe what I was seeing.  Her face was smashed and bleeding. I could tell she was a beautiful lady.  She was petite. She was in what looked like to be a military uniform.  I would later find out she was in the military and home for a break.  She laid there lifeless.  All my 12-year-old mind could process what was before me.  When I discovered her a dog (tan Pitbull) was in the area.  My young mind thought?  Is the dog responsible?  I look back and think of how innocent I was at the time.  It was before I was violently attacked (raped) at 13.  It was around the time of my harassment by a female family friend (lesbian advances).  I thought back at all those instances where my innocence “slowly slipped” away.  I think by the age of 16 years old the trauma I had experienced had consumed 85-90%  of my mind. 

I did not know what to do.  I just sat there and stared and then I finally snapped out of it.  I must tell someone (I thought).   I need to run but how could I leave her?  She was not moving so maybe she was gone.  I was the only person on the playground.  My mom was an educator at a local private school and I was always dropped off early.  I know there was a playground monitor around somewhere in the area but where is she.   I finally saw what appeared to be an adult and ran.  At that point I was crying and the lady embraced me in her arms.  I was talking so fast she could not understand me.  All I could say is “A lady”.  She said “what baby”?  There is a lady over there and she is not moving!  Her face is smashed in and she is bleeding? 

This was way before cellphones so we ran inside where I remember staying until my mother was called to pick me up.  The rest of the day was a blur.  That image has stuck with me for over 30 years.   Why?  How? Who did this/that?  These are the questions that ran through my mind?  My mom came to pick me up and I just remember going home.  She wanted me to lay down but every time I closed my eyes I kept see this woman’s face.  I kept seeing her lifeless body repeatedly. I saw blood. I saw her eyes that looked like one tear had fallen.  I saw this image for many many months to come.   I never went to counseling.  I don’t even remember a conversation about it with my parents.   My home functioned is as “ if we don’t talk about it” it did not happen.  This is when sports became therapy.      My dad was my first coach.  I played softball for him at 10 years old.  I learned at a really young age sports is where I could do and be what I wanted.  I could get really “angry”.  I could be “sad”.  I could show emotions.   It was all ok.  People would tell me” I love your passion”.  I would think in my head.  I am just trying to stay sane.  I also began to write.  I would write sometimes and be so afraid of what was on the paper I would tear it up and bury it.  Was I this angry?  Was I this hurt?  Was I demonic?  I really didn’t know.   I just knew it was not normal so I had to put on an extra show to act normal.   I know I would have been a great actor because most nights I was tormented and got very little sleep but when the lights came on, when I went to school, when I was around friends;  I was silly.  I was the life of the party.  I think to outsiders at time I was perceived as shy however, when I warm up I can/could work a room.  My athletic ability pushed me to be more.  It pushed me to be more present at times when I wanted to zone out.  It was the driving force behind a lot of my successes.  The drive for perfection can be a double edge sword.  I had very little off days.  I pushed myself so hard.  I had to always have perfect grades.  I had to always have my “body” look a particular way.  I always had to have my hair like this or that.  It was a never -ending cycle.  This cycle carried on and on for years.  How long can I keep this up?  How long can I hide these secrets?  About 10 years after the incident, I remember sitting in a sociology class in college.  The professor flashed and image on screen.  The first thing that popped in my head was “this woman”.  I shared my story and obviously the professor and class was mortified.  I was referred to a counseling center.  I did go.  However, I stepped back into my normal (as a college athlete).  I began showing up early for practices.   I would run before and after.  While admiring my dedication to athletes, no one notices I was on my way to a mental meltdown.   I would beat myself up because I never understood why I could not shake old stuff.  Why is this bothering me?  I am a Division 1 athlete at the top of my game on a full ride scholarship?  I have great grades.  I have my own place.  Why do I care?  Why is this haunting me?  It was not until the age of 44 years old (after trauma counseling) did understand. 

The little girl in me needs “attention”.  She is screaming for the attention I never got.  She shows out at times.  I had to learn how to love on her.  My trauma counselor even made me give her a name.  I call her Rosie after my grandmother.  I know it sounds crazy but there are times I must love on Rosie now.  I know when she is clowning.  That inner child shows up in all of us.  It is an ongoing battle.  I am just glad I understand it now.   It is labeled “protecting your peace”.  I must at all cost.  I really must as a mother of 4.  My main goal is to be there for them.  I want to before them what I did not have.