Why Don’t I Remember?

Now living in Arizona… at some point my mom meets the man who will end up becoming my adoptive father.  Once again, I have no memories of this time in my life – other than perhaps flashes here and there.  Or perhaps they are just memories of pictures I have seen, I’m honestly not sure.   

At any rate, they married somewhere around the time I was 4.  Then sometime around the time I was 5, he adopted me.  Apparently, I sat before the judge and said “yes, I want him to be my daddy.” 

Help me out here – do other people have memories from when they were 5?  I just have such a black hole where I feel like memories are supposed to be.

Here is what I DO remember from my childhood years. 

I lived in a very old house.  One of those old houses that makes creaking noises all night long.  The kind of house that gives you goosebumps because you feel like you are being watched all the time.  You know, the ones you would swear are haunted.  I am not entirely convinced that it wasn’t haunted.  It was actually two apartments that had been turned into one large house.  I was left there alone often.  Of course, I was terrified.  I don’t recall where my parents were or any details surrounding why I was left alone – just that I was alone, with the dog.

Now this house had two basements.  One had a large overhead door – the size of an actual door – that had to be lifted up to get into it.  It was horribly heavy.  Inside there was a steep set of concrete stairs.  I can still smell it – the smell of wet earth.  I don’t remember what was down there and something tells me it is better that I don’t.  Every time I think about that basement, my heart rate goes up.  While I have no memory of it, I have a strong intuition that that large door was shut on me and I was unable to get out.    

The second basement was much more shallow.  It was just a dirt floor – no concrete.  That basement just happened to be underneath MY bedroom.  It was covered by a large carpet – and for good reason.  This basement is where my adoptive dad grew his marijuana.  Yes, you read that right.  I had pot growing right underneath where I slept.  I was often allowed to sit on the wooden steps while he was down there “tending” his plants.  And, it is no surprise I am sure, that I was sworn to absolute secrecy.  This oath of secrecy, by the way, would continue until the day my dad died.

There is just one more thing.  Another thing that I have no actual recollection of… I have always had a very strong intuition that I was molested in that house.  By whom, I do not know, but my gut tells me that my adoptive dad was somehow involved. 

For a long time, I wanted so badly to know what that black hole in my memory contained.  What happened to me to make me the way I am? 

But sometimes those things are better left alone.  It is only recently, within the last year, that I have finally been able to let go and stop seeking answers that I will likely never get. 

Whatever happened, happened.  It cannot be undone and I will never get an apology… not this side of Heaven anyway. 

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