waking up at night, gaspin, clawing at the bed with the sheets wrapped around me . . . Hearing the agony of screams as somebody is trying to escape the pain, slowly realizing the screams are my own. Waking with the dry throat and the heaving breaths . . .trying to figure out if I am dying or awake in some strange place. Nightmares. They come in waves . . . easing off just when I think I can't handle one more night of lying there . . . terrified to sleep and yet exhausted by the mental and emotional strain of walking through my daily life.

Why now? Why so many dreams and thoughts, memories filtering to the top of my consciousness like oil drifts to the top of the water. Nothing is new . . . except the memory of the fear . . .sometimes dull and aching, other times sharp and painful. Awareness is new too. I was such a scared child. I had no safe place, no safe harbor, no place to bury my head and know that all was going to be well.

Living in our Skookum house is where the fear began. Thoughts drift through my heart and through my soul. I feel my chest tighten and my legs begin to grow weak . . . my toes tingling when I remember, when I free my mind and go back.

Memories of walkign down that damp dark porch to Dads shop . . .screaming "daddy daddy daddy" I would scream and shake, afraid of the dark and the cold but so much more afraid that when I opened that door my father would be lying in a bloody pool in an effort to end his own life. When he would finally answer me the relief would wash over me in waves and I would race to get out of the dark and cold . . . race to the shop that held his tools and machinery to tell him to come to dinner.
Dinner. . .meals .. . those were loaded times. Never knew when Dad was going to be furious and screaming or throwing things. Moms shelf was always in danger of having things thrown from one end to the other. Dad in a fit of rage, mom crouched on the floor begging him to stop. "mitch please please stop" she would cry. It was my job to intervene. My job to calm him before he became more violent and took it out on us. My job was to protect her and goddammit i was so young, I must have been about nine. Hannahs age.

The night we broke down, coming back through Sams valley late at night. We blew a tire and had to go into town. Dad was telling me that he hated my mother and wanted her dead. He wanted to twist her head off off her neck until she popped like a balloon and was no longer alive. I had just seen a movie where a woman's head exploded and couldn't erase the image from my mind of my mothers head exploding all over me. I begged my father to calm down, told him to hit me but not my mom. I didn't want my mom hurt. I told him she didn't mean to . . . I was always defending her. He was shaking in rage, his face red and sweaty. He was furious . . . over what I no longer can recall. Eventually we were able to get home and I thought I would die that night. He was screaming and jerking the wheel all over, the car was veering all over the road. My mom was screaming back. I huddled in the back with my hands over my ears trying to drowned out the screaming.

Always screaming and threats, always violence. Bruises and scrapes from thrown items were the norm. I was so proud to have Robin come to visit for a weekend. She was the most popular girl in the school and I finally had a friend over. Dad was furious . . . he threw a cup of coffee at me and struck me with it. Robin was scared and her parents came for her. I didn't understand. I knew I was bad and had lost a friend . . .

It was awful. The therapist made my dad take his guns out of the home because he was threatening to kill us. He took all but one out. He still had the one gun . .. always so aware of that gun and wanting to use it to shoot him. I wanted him dead. Then came the day that he loaded it and began parading with it. Mom and I ran as fast as we could to the van to get away. My legs couldn't move fast enough. That all too familar feeling of adrenaline racing through my veins. Both mom and I were crying and praying that God would allow our van to start that day so that we could get away. i ran so fast I couldn't turn to see if he was behind us. I thought we were dead. I knew that would be the day. As we hit the van we realized it was going to start and we could get away. My mom drove as fast as she could down that driveway when we realized that he was shooting at us. he didn't hit us . .. but he did hit the trees lining the driveway. Was he trying to kill us? Did he hate me that bad? Do I wonder why I live in constant fear of men?

And, she went back . . . even after he beat the car with the hammer trying to get to us. He would have killed us that night too. Even after he scraped her breast with the throw of a brush and hung her off a bridge. Even after i told her that he had molested me . . . that he had held me down in my little white gown and did what he did. she went back. "katrina, I miss my home and my animals. don't be selfish" thats what she said. Don't be selfish.

so I was selfish and I didn't go back. I began to write. Tonight I found a poem I wrote to my dad . . . then . . my words were strong. I didn't rhyme well, I was child like. . . but the words are strong. I don't know what to think . . . sitting here reading my poems from my childhood. Words that captured moments in time.

Here are my words . . .

Dad
Sadness pulls at my heart
When I think of the innocence you stold
Looking back on you
You must have been damn cold

When I think of the things you have done
I get so angry inside
You pulled me down and hurt me so bad
You wounded my innocent pride

The precious innocence you stold from me
is something i can never regain
but the sad thing is,
I'm sill under your strings
and I can't let go of this pain.

So now I hope your hurting
somewhere deep inside
I guess thats the wrong way to think
or maybe a feeling I should hide

But im tired of having to hide
my feeling thoughts and emotion
maybe this way I can forget
some of this terrible commotion.

I wrote that at fourteen. What The Fuck?

`Or, the one I wrote february 1989. I was what . . .13? This was two months before I tried to take my life . . . when I was in the thick of being homeless and shuffled around town. It was cold that winter, snow to my knees. This was two months before Jim began raping me for the next three years. I was . .. thirteen . .. .

Divorce
The word divorce has always scared me
it started way back when I was just three
member sitting in the wagon my daddy telling me
don't worry honey it will last eternity

Being the kid I was, dumb and naive
how was I to know that someday he would leave
I saw the beatings and all the fithts
but I never thought hed be gone on these long winter nights

I guess its better this way with him not here
because nwo I don't have to spend my life in constant fear
but its still hard cus theres a new fear
it only seems to happen when one of them is near

The drugs and alcohol have taken their toll
taught me some lessons, im no longer a fool.
but I know when she comes near
that shes been out and it brings back my fear

She says she don't drink and that shes fine
but I know better cus I know the sign
She says its her life to do as she wants
but late at night, its me that it haunts

I know I should stop her and not let her go
but if I do she makes me feel so low
she yells at me and leaves me confused
and says bad things that make my heart feel confused.


JESUS . . .. I was thirteen. I was a baby. How could I have wrote that. what the hell was my reality? Random lines from poems back then are tearing out my soul tonight . . " Sometimes life don't seem worth it to try, all you want to do is Cry" . . .. I was 12. TWELVE! "I feel so alone and burning up with pain, my life is like a paper that has been spoiled by a stain" . . . .

flipping through my old book of poems . .. from eleven to fourteen . . . the words rape, pain, stain, death, shame . . . over and over.

and I wonder why i have nightmares