The Chains of My Past

I wear my past as invisible chains. All appearances point to a well put together partner, parent and employee, but the chains remain, forever weighing me down.

Everyone tells me to let it go and to put the past behind me but try as I might, I am always somehow reminded of the painful past that has come to haunt me.

Even though some things can be put to the back of your mind, there are others that remain vivid and can be brought to the forefront on a moment’s notice.

I have never told anyone the entirety of what I endured over the years, I am not even sure if I always remember it all. I have heard that the most painful of memories are sometimes repressed so as to protect our fragile psyche.

One event that remains vivid happened when I was around six; my father was working as a police officer and my mother was a hairdresser. My grandparents had helped them start their own business “ The House of Beauty.” We were living in a rental home. It was an old Victorian and it had glass door knobs.

Things were not good: my father had a terrible temper and a wandering eye. I was never sure of all that was happening but there was a lot of yelling and a lot of fighting.

After kindergarten we moved to a small ranch in a subdivision. My parents used to send me with permission notes to buy them packs of cigarettes at the party store down the road. The house did not have the glass doorknobs but it had “Dutch Doors”. Why is it the doors that I remember?

My parent’s relationship became very volatile and abusive, my father got let go from the police force because he threatened someone that he thought my mother was interested in or who was interested in her. I always heard things in bits and pieces, through yelling and shouting. At age six I don’t think I even had a clue about what was really going on. I just know my father did not always want my mother in his life but he did not want anyone else to have her either. They soon separated.

One evening as we came into the house, the house with the Dutch Doors, he was there. Hiding in the dark. I was six, I had no idea he wasn’t supposed to be there and I was excited to see him. As I started to say something he put his finger up to his lip to shush me. And before I knew it he had her around the neck, a gun to her throat. Things become blurry then, the memories become fuzzy- there was screaming there was crying and somehow we all came out alive. I can’t remember past the shushing, the grabbing, the gun. I don’t think I want to remember.

There is more, so much more. So many doors, so many events that added to the chains.

I am thankful in part for the chains, they are a reminder of all I’ve overcome; emotional, physical and sexual abuse as well as emotional and physical neglect.

The chains helped me to become a force to be reckoned with, they gave me strength and resilience and fortitude I would otherwise never possess.

When others hear parts of my story their first remark is, “How in the world did you turn out so normal?” My retort is always “Normal is all relative.” No one could carry these chains and be “normal.” Hell, is anyone normal anyway?

Through the years the chains have begun to weaken. I know in due time I will break free. Through writing I am able to shed the chains and I a forever lightened of the load I have carried for so long. With freedom will come peace. I will never forget; after all, the chains made me who I am today. I hope…..no, I know , I have broken the cycle with my own children and although not perfect, I have given them the stable life that I always dreamed of as a child.

We all have invisible chains, do you wear yours well?