I could write about it in a journal, but I don't know if anyone would ever read it. I've worked with the same Therapist for well over a decade, and learned many things. I've worked with a Psychiatrist as long, as well. I've learned that for one thing, I don't like being over medicated.
It's a hard life for those of us chastised for having any kind of "Mental Health" Diagnosis, but many of us who are on the stage or in a spotlight have been working hard to teach others that we pay more attention and work harder on our Mental Health than those who aren't able to, or choose not to face their Demons.
I'm 58 years old now. If I could figure out a way to permanently erase any memories of what was done to me as a child, I don't know that I would. This life must be lived. I could choose to attempt a life of what I affectionately call "Sheep". Plotting out my life like a sort of Monopoly Game. But, I know that in this life, what I have been given is an opportunity to claim my strength. My perseverance, tenacity, and sheer will have kept me alive thus far. I am well aware that many times in our lives, when we are given an opportunity to grow, it can be very painful.
If I had the resources and intellect to hire attorneys, and other support staff to create a life for myself that would offer me a situation, where I would never again have to worry about how to keep a roof over my head, food, and supplies to live out the rest of my life I would certainly do so. But, the way things are now with a Global Pandemic, and an ever mounting failure to correct Global Destruction - which I know is not 100% the fault of humanity - I am only able to learn what I can from my life's lessons and keep striving to not only survive but at least learn to enjoy some small things and be ever grateful for it.

Yesterday, I happened to take a picture of my backside. I never thought that I had a cute backside until a lover told me once in my mid forties that I did. I was surprised when I did see that he was right.
Since then as I've aged, I've noticed many scars. It sort of bewildered me at first, as I don't have much capacity for seeing the future. It has really been enlightening and although the many scars I have are frightening, cause very painful memories and emotions to surface, it has given me an opportunity to learn from them. To forgive myself is one of the best gifts I have received. To learn that in each instance, I was a child and it wasn't my fault has been an incredible gift.
It amazes me how we are all built with a sort of filter that protects us in ways from things too powerful and impossible to control, by blocking it out or filtering it so that we can begin to process what happened when we're ready.
I have taken many pictures over the years, and documented many things I've been through. It has become my life's work, that I hope one day someone else will benefit from.
This particular memory has come up before yet I learned that I was not yet ready to fully process it. This is my story, of how I learned to be proud of my scars because I was a child and had no control over what others charged with my care, nurturing and teaching, did to me because of their shortcomings. I will share with you now, this one particular lesson. As an added note, I may have written about this incident before, but the new information I now possess sheds more light and vindication of what happened to me. And so it begins...

I was in 3rd grade. We had moved a few times, in what seemed across ages of time and space. I had lived a carefree life very early in Hawaii, where my Grandparents (the late Francis & Irene Haar) had legally adopted me and were my parents. Then, I was placed back with my Mother in Japan although to this day I am not certain why.

From Hawaii, to Japan, then to California where my legally adopted stepfather was to return from about two years overseas. California's way of teaching gradeschoolers was vastly different from both Hawaii and especially Japan. Creativity was a skill promoted in Japan. Not so much in the United States.

As soon as he returned, I was to learn how to lie. I don't believe this was his intention but regardless is what I learned, in order to survive what he did.
A report card came home, and for the first time I learned how one person could read a statement and it could mean something so different to another.
A note at the bottom of the report card which wasn't bad at all I thought, was affectionately saying that I was a very inquisitive and talkative little girl. Sometimes liking to talk to my classmates quite a bit. It was a gentle, affectionate way to guide me in the direction of paying more attention to the teacher and less on those around me.
I wasn't diagnosed with ADHD as well as several other things until I was in my late forties. For three days in a row, when I returned home from school I was to first meet him in the garage. He had a five gallon bucket turned over that he sat on. He would have me put down anything I was carrying, then standing in front of him he would ask me if I had talked during school that day when I wasn't called upon to talk. I of course told the truth as my grandparents had instilled in me. This was followed by instructions to pull my panties down. He then would grab me by the arms and lay me across his lap. Then, in silence and great force he would slap my behind once. Then wait. If I made no sound he would do it again. Sometimes, I was able to withstand several strikes before screaming. He would then stand me up and shake me hard, telling me to stop talking. This went on for three days. I was having a difficult time sitting in school for any length of time, which also got me in trouble and with the pain and bruising I was in shock to say or do anything for fear of more punishment.
I remember lying on the next day, because I felt I had no choice. It was several days later that my mother finally looked at my behind. I don't remember her doing anything about it.
I don't know where she was when it was going on, other than in the house.

So, forward now in my life to being 58 years old. My two children have little to do with me. My parents have long divorced and married other people. I've had many traumatic memories come back and have learned how to deal with them.
Yesterday, as I looked at what I had always dismissed as probably some stretch marks, scars suddenly began to take the shape of fingers and hands.
As I rotated the pictures, enhanced the images a bit...I suddenly was able to trace the permanent scars of what was done to me so many lifetimes ago. I've traced the scars and there's no doubt in my mind what they are.
With overwhelming emotions, and some tears I instinctively told myself as I held my hands over my heart trying to comfort my now old body, that it wasn't my fault. It was never my fault. I reassured myself that I would never again as long as I was able, allow anyone to hurt me like that again.
I've lived alone, with a companion animal for many years. I don't know that anyone would be able to or want to withstand taking on a relationship with someone like me. So I've resigned myself to be alone.
I survive now, on my Social Security being classified as Disabled. I live a very simple life. I rarely go out. I rarely leave my apartment, and although it gets very lonely at times I have so much more peace and comfort than I've ever had before, and am grateful for it.
I would never have believed what life had in store for me when I was very little. I'm never going to give up now, but I sure get tired sometimes.
I've known since very early in life, at the age of three that I would be faced with great pain...and there was nothing I could do to avoid it.
I hope at some point I will have mastered enjoying what I have and feel proud of my accomplishments.
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