Private Story
we live(d) in our heads
An excerpt from my project statement, written for the “we live(d) in our heads” book I’m developing:
I’m three playing with my doll. He is yelling and it scares her—she never stops crying. My doll’s name is Leah. Leah is one.
I’m four. I’m in the bathroom talking to the creatures who live in the walls. He shouts who are you talking to. I tell him the rabbits. He tells me to hurry up and get the fuck out.
I’m six. My kindergarten friend exclaims, ‘I can’t wait for the weekend so I can stay home!’ I look at him quizzically. Home makes me uneasy. I much prefer school days.
I’m eight and I go to the playground with him and Leah. Mommy isn’t allowed to come. She doesn’t leave the house.
I’m 12 and my friend asks to come over to my house. I tell her my house is weird. I can come over to her house instead. He asks me where I’m going. Am I going over to my whore friend’s house? He tells me to sit the fuck down.
I’m 13. We don’t have internet or TV at home. We listen to the Christian radio station. I read. I spend seven to eight hours of the day reading. I average a book a day.
I’m 14 and he pushes me to the ground onto Caleb’s throw-up. He tells me to fucking clean it up.
I’m 15 and I need to use the internet to do my homework. I walk to the library. He screams at me when I return home later that evening. You fucking whore.
I’m 17 and Leah hasn’t talked in a while. It’s been almost a year. She looks like she’s in a perpetual state of shock. He calls her the Ice Queen. She looks at him, terrified. At school my art teacher asks if she’s okay. I tell her she’s just weird.
I’m 18 and he pushes me down the stairs, jumps down after me and kicks me as I lay on the floor. He had been hurting Daniel. I got in the way.
I’m 22. It’s March, 2015. I receive an email from mom. She tells me things are bad. She tells me she made a friend who will help. She tells me she’s going to leave him by May.
May 1, 2015—we call it Freedom Day.
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