My very first abuser gave me 6 dimes after traumatically assaulting me. I held them tightly in my hand until I could get alone to hide them. I knelt down behind our house and buried them up under the edge of the house thinking some day I would return to take them back. In 1969, 6 dimes was a lot of money.
For weeks after, I was so scared that someone would find them and immediately know that I had been with an adult man.
I never ever thought he did anything wrong. It was me. I was a bad girl.
Anyway, I forgot about those coins and moved on to my next trauma and abuser.
For the past two years, I’ve been dreaming about finding buried coins. I had no idea why. I thought maybe I was psychic or something.
So over the past couple of months, Mrs. A and I have been discussing abusers, one at a time. She was randomly picking which perpetrator.
When she got to the first one, I did a lot of blocking and zoning out. Trying not to give in to the tears.
And then it came back. Those 6 dimes. That little girl squated down in the dirt, trying to bury 6 coins that she wanted to keep so badly. I saw her face. I saw her sadness. But she was brave and never cried. How did she do that?
Anyway, as I’m trying to process this memory, the flashbacks are relentless. The only thing I can think of is not being on the earth any longer. And then I beat myself up because I feel like I would fail at that also.
Today I am at the beach. Trying to walk it off. Trying to find peace. Trying to get back my 6 dimes.
Until next time – I am being MJ everyday.