Say Something: Pt 8 The Worth of Statements— I told the detectives and prosecutor I really didn’t know when everything happened. They said to just write on the witness statement what I remember. I had to make a statement.
Years before that courtroom, perhaps when I am sixteen or seventeen and Brenda two years younger, the years hazy from our timeless way of life, Brenda ostensibly broke our silence about our father’s sexual assault of us.
My father could raise his voice when he was angry or lecturing but he also knew how to whisper so quietly and secretly to me that no one in the room knew the terrible things he spoke to me.
As with listening to music, physical and emotional pain both have the power to be so loud for so long they affect your hearing it anymore. Pain is powerful. Pain has volume.
My hold on reality is tenuous at times. I roll up in my sheets, comforter, and pillow, wrapping my arms around me. I don't know how I fell asleep—fearful of his coming, down the hall, through the door, and for me.
You can Google all sorts of information on PTSD and lesser on Complex PTSD, but what is harder to sort out is what it is like on a personal level.