1992

 


I was little.

I was scared of the dark. And dogs. I was terrified of the screams from my father, the drugs my mother consumed like water, being yelled at by teachers, monsters under my bed, and monsters in the garage. 

I was afraid 'to stop breathing,' which were the only words I had to try and describe a panic attack. I was five.

I feared time with my grandfathers. One pinched my hip as hard as he could and constantly walked around wearing too-tight white underwear. He made me go outside and walk on a decrepit bridge over a running stream with sharp rocks. The other babysat by means of sitting me in the smoke cloud of the VFW while he gambled and got plastered. He would drive me home after. 

I didn't know how to speak up. 

I was little. 


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