Middle Of Nowhere

“You were a mistake. You shouldn’t even be here.”

She knew, of course. She felt the shame of non-existence, or worse, the stench of failure in existing, when her existence was both unwanted, and flawed.

She was here, but she was not really here.

“You are a whore. You are your father’s plaything.”

She knew that, of course. When he came to her, in the middle of the night, and touched and grunted through his parental affection; closing her eyes, she’d crawl viscous and dehydrated up the wall, tracing the bumps in the wallpaper, to reside, looking down, in a far corner. There, she belonged. There, she knew objectivity, and height, and numbness.

“Whore. Whore.”

She knew. Claiming the words, she became provocative. She was flirtatious, her mouth twisted in coyness, her coltish limbs akimbo. The skirt she was dressed in became an extension of herself; her material gingham fishing line, to reel the predator in, and then with the sag of non-starched linen, the creases went in on themselves and she was subsumed.

Family, then. The devastating dynamics and hierarchy. The mother, the father, the brother, the whore. The little whore. The six-year old prick-tease; the besmirched cherry-red sweet-stained lips, that rosebud mouth. She honed and sharpened the only weapons she had been given. For all she was reviled, she watched, and heard, and listened, and learned.

The family, then. Displaced, most of the time. Creating world within world beyond the profound horrific reality of hunger; beyond the pain of cold, the sharp penetrative sting of betrayal.

None of this was real. Inside, there were unicorns and fairy dust sprinkles, and books and books and books. The Famous Five. The Secret Seven. Look, here, a secret; a world where pivotal penetration doesn’t feature.

“You whore. You husband-stealing, flirtatious little shit.”

She knew, and sometimes she gained courage, and chose to be alone with her hated self. Opening the cupboard door, clambering through the sheepskin scented coats and dusty leather, and behind (was this Narnia?) a panel, and a smooth fisted hit, and then a shelf high above reality, and she could climb, and hide.

It was dark. It was secret. It was safe, safe, safe.

Here, then, the arguing racket of discord faded. She was beyond punches, beyond truth and reality.

Here. In the musty, moth-ridden dank darkness, she curled and nestled. She was quietly alive and safe. There were light pink blankets, reeking of dust. Waffled, honey-combed fleece mounds which could be stacked in front of her, and deflect adulthood.

This was her middle of nowhere. This was her quiet, musty everything.

She survived. She was on the cusp; the periphery of everything. When the whole rank distorted world seemed overwhelming, at that pivotal point of life and death she would step out, her worn shoes ringing confidently, and she would escape.

Hush, now. The future is viable. It waits for you patiently, like a lover. It will enfold you in warm arms, so much stronger than you could ever believe, or imagine. There are unicorns, there, too. You will, little girl, ride among them, triumphant.

There is love, ahead. Love, and parenting, and the vast immense and unfathomable devastation of motherhood. There is laughing, and music, and faith and trust and enough food, and warmth, and solid safe walls which nurture and forgive. There is a somewhere, soon, for you.

Hush, now. The life you see, right now? This is not life. This is relentless nothingness. Soon, you will carve a space so sure, so deep and safe – have faith. It’s coming. It will soon be yours. Your somewhere.

Your real.

Your somewhere.