Hauntings

Very cranky and irritable this week. Probably itchy, too. The opposite of nostalgia, when all the flotsam bobs about, and the jetsam snarls my lines, and I remember past slights and hurts with aching clarity. I don't harbor grudges nor do I enjoy dwelling on this petty and long discarded crap, but it visits me as I drift off to sleep, or wakes me from frightening dreams, when I am vulnerable and too heavy to push away the lumpen ghosties.

Mostly to do with the people in my life that I did not chose, who had a say, who controlled and misused. It started with the trip with neighbors to the zoo. Their granddaughter Tammy, was a playmate, a year younger than me, when we were both very small, who always had to have the biggest piece, go first, and play the games she wanted. So desperate for anyone to play with, I let her have her way, because when she didn't get it, she would storm out saying she'd never talk to me again. My mother pointed out that she was always back within a half hour, and I shouldn't worry. Eventually, I learned to ignore her fits, and also not to care very much what she thought. But on the trip to the zoo, Tammy's teenaged aunt was assigned to me when we went to the public restrooms. Now, I always went into the stalls alone, for as long as I can remember. So this sulky girl staring at me while I pulled down my pants was just too much. She rolled her eyes and turned toward the door at my insistence, but refused to leave me alone. She'd been given orders, and thought me a complete little prude. Well, I couldn't go, and really needed to. I tried to get away a little later, but young aunt was sent with me again, so I just neverminded that suggestion.

The next restroom, I just hung back and went in myself, desperate by now. When I came out, they were all in a panic, that I'd been kidnapped or some such. I knew I'd catch hell from my parents. But that all seemed less awful than pissing myself out in public. I was perhaps eight or nine. I don't remember what my mother did, although I'm sure she reinforced that just disappearing was thoughtless and mean, that I'd needlessly frightened them. I always figured that they were the ones who gave me no other option, and I had to do what I had to do. Hard to think straight with a full bladder.

Lately, I feel haunted by all the old scars, pulling. They cry out for justice and retribution, and I have to gently pat them and say, now, now, that doesn't help. Let the dead bury the dead. Let go, let go, let go.

And the neighbor's last name just barely eludes me. I don't need to know it, don't really want to, but part of me keeps worrying at it anyway, at two in the morning.