M Y S T I C�� T A C O�� S T A N D

Sweet Memories ... July 14, 2004

-time for a fun flash back-

-weeeeee!-

i was writing about the first dream i ever had in my dream journal thing today and it started me spiraling down into memories of my childhood.

in many respects i was a normal child. in fact, i think i was lucky because besides a few incidents outside the home, i never experienced any consistant physical, mental or sexual abuse. i know lots of kids everywhere get raped or beaten or treated like shit, and by their own family, too, so often that it hardly seems abnormal when you hear someone talk about being a survivor of childhood abuse perpetrated by someone who was supposed to be a trusted and respectible adult. i think the worst thing my parents ever did to me was spend a little too much time working and not paying attention to me. they sometimes had to leave me in the hands of babysitters who, little did they know, were less than savory characters. but they HAD to do that in order to afford to be able to feed me and my brother. we were quite poor when i was young and so they had to make the choice between letting us starve so they could stay home with us or leaving us with a babysitter so they could go earn the meager paychecks that supported us. i learned very early from some very sadistic teenagers what rape and death and evil were all about. they at first only showed me examples and had a good time laughing at my reactions, bullying me if i threatened to tell on what they were doing to some of the other little kids who were around. and of course, after a time, they finally made me what you might call a victim, too.

okay, but this is not really the important part.

the thing is, i already knew about these things before they showed me. even though i didn't have the words to express them. i knew. given a series of examples of actions, i could have identified the bad ones, even though i couldn't have named them or told you WHY they were bad.

and i do want to add that as soon as my mother suspected that something wasn't quite right, she removed me from the situation. a mother always knows, they say, but she was good enough to never ask difficult questions that i couldn't answer anyways. she just took me away from harm like any good mother would.

but back to the dream. this dream is my proof that i knew about these things BEFORE those teenagers. my proof that i already somehow knew the pleasure and pain of violence. for one, i couldn't have been more than maybe a year and a half old when i woke up with my stomach clenching and my eyes full of tears over what i had seen and done in this dream. i know this because i clearly remember waking and sobbing with my hands clinging to the white wooden bars of my crib. i remember the cold painted wood pressing against my tiny cheeks as i quietly cried. and i know that my parents moved me out of the crib when my little brother was born a year and a half after i was.

at the time, i didn't quite grasp the difference between dreams and reality. i was afraid that my mother would be mad at me for doing these things that i KNEW were bad. i was afriad she would be upset if she found out. i was convinced that it was possible for her to find out even though i certainly couldn't have told her myself.

i was a cowboy in a white hat on a blonde colored horse. the dream began with the realization that i was an adult AND a boy instead of a girl. i was on my horse, riding up and down the dusty red and yellow western street. i went to the saloon to find my girlfriend or perhaps she was my wife, i don't know. she wasn't there. someone told me that she had been killed and pointed through the swinging saloon doors to a ditch that could be seen down the road and at the other end of the tiny town. i left my horse and ran wildly down the street. i found her mutilated body in that ditch. i saw flashes of what happened to her. i saw the man who did it. i heard her screaming, even though she was already dead when i got there. so fresh that they hadn't even had time to clean up the body yet. so i went back to the saloon. i screamed "who did it?!?" a random cowboy sitting at a nearby table pointed to a man sitting all hunched over in the corner. dark skin, dark eyes, scruffy stubbly face & black hair. i ran back to him, grabbed him by his hair and drug him screaming from the saloon. i used a rope to tie his hands and feet and then i drug him from the back of my horse through the dirt roads of the town, took him out to the same ditch where he had murdered my lady. he was begging for his life. i made him kneel and then i shot him in the face with my gun. the dream ends with me climbing back onto my horse and riding out of the ditch, feeling a supreme wave of vengeful pleasure at what i had done.

this dream is my first memory. the uncertainty over whether what i thought i had really done was right or wrong. the contradiction between how good it FELT and the actual RESULT of my vengence. it was terribly traumatic for me, so much so that it became my first memory.

i think that perhaps my mind was already cracked at the point the teenagers got to me and taught me the names for the things that were already in my mind like impossible memories.

the violence, the evil was already in me. at one, i already knew the essence of rape and murder and vengence, even though i didn't have the words to name them yet. i already knew the thrill of homicidal hatred and triumph as it coursed through my veins. where did it come from? how did i know these things? i don't know. but it was there.

the only thing i can say the teenagers did to (for?) me was to crack me a little further.

-anothermemorydredgedupandputondisplay foryourpersonalentertainment-

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