Dredging Up The Past **trigger warning**

One of my most favorite photos I've ever taken. It's a calming image before the trigger, right?

Ugh. This is not what I had intended on thinking about to start off the new year, but it's happening regardless. A dear friend and I try to meet up at least once a week, barring work hasn't completely swamped us or we are fighting the crud. We have so much in common, but yet we don't at the same time, and we joke that there's a perfect person somewhere between us, as we draw an imaginary line on the table between us. Since moving back to Maine, we've gotten a lot closer, and I cherish our friendship. 

Sometimes, I open up.

This past weekend, I opened all the way up and admitted something that I had only thought about before. I never let my internal narrative speak this truth, and to speak it aloud, ... well... we'll just say it was time to do so. We both work in social services, so our conversations have a tendency to get weighty, heavy, and gritty. Sometimes we turn inwards. I found myself doing just that. I realized I was talking, and things that I've never talked about before were going to come out. 

I remember when I was young, maybe 5 or so sleeping in my bed. I could hear my mother fighting with her then boyfriend. They did that often. He was an alcoholic, and abusive. When he was done yelling at her, he'd turn his attention to my brother and I. There were several times I remember them fighting, and he'd end up on the couch. He'd find his way into my room. He'd tell me to move over. I would. Then I remember fear. Fear of moving,  fear of what was happening. I remember him being physically close to me. I remember being scared shitless. I didn't know what to do. I remember feeling his hand on me, moving. There was a point that as his hand moved down, everything went black.  I don't know if anything more happened, or if my little mind blocked it out. I'm putting money on my brain has repressed whatever happened next. I remember hating him. To this day, if you were to speak his name, I feel nothing but hatred and anger. For over 30 years, I have denied my memories. Claimed then as false, as the inner workings of a 5 year old brain. 

Until this past weekend. 

She listened, graciously, and I stared ahead just talking. It was the first time I let myself think it. It was definitely my first time verbalizing what happened. I knew it to be real. I felt no emotion when I spoke about it. Much in the way I can talk about my mother attacking me, I can tell the events without interference of emotions. No anger, no tears, just facts. Just facts until my brain goes blank. I don't know if I want to know what happened beyond the black recesses of my mind. I don't know if I want to know how a grown man could violate a 5 year old child in a drunken stupor. 

I just don't know. 

I feel badly for dumping this sort of story on her, but I am eternally grateful she gave me the safe platform to do so. Now that I have gotten this out, what do I do now?