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There was a time when I had little evidence of my existence as a child. Over the years I obsessively collected every image of my family that I could find. I put those pictures at the top of my closet. After all these years, I’m finally brave enough to bring them down, take a closer look, and tell my story.

At the moment I’m slightly annoyed because I’m having trouble finding a particular photograph. I need to look at this Polaroid with fresh eyes. When I intently observe photographs, I find clues to help me find the truth. I’m a truth detective. Sometimes on the back or around the edges, you can find a date. Other times, the photo jars my memory.

The picture I’m looking for today is quite important to me. So much so that I had a friend of mine, Brenda, create a painting of it many years ago. It used to hang in my kitchen, but something about it made me sad and I took it down.

I remember this moment. In the photograph my cheeks are shiny from the tears that just spilled onto my face because of my mother spanking us into submission for this pose. My brother’s expression is pained and his body language is rigid. My pose is troubling to me. Simultaneously protective and inappropriate.

When I look through the rest of the photographs I find two others where my brother is wearing this shirt and I realize that this is his third birthday  party in March 1972. My parents were newly divorced, the party was at my mother’s house.

Another memory I have is when my dad came to visit me there. He tried to talk to me, but I wouldn’t even look at him. Before he arrived, my mother had instructed me to ignore him. I dutifully stared straight ahead at the TV until he left.

My birthday is in April, I turned six in 1972. I have a series of photographs from my birthday party. In every picture there’s a blond boy staring at me, clearly mesmerized by my fabulous hairstyle.

I do not remember this birthday party. I have always had trouble with memory. There are huge gaps. It used to scare me, but now I understand. That is how my mind protected me as a child. The longer I am sober, and the more I focus on healing, the more I recall.

Not all my memories are bad. Around this time my dad remarried. I remember when I met my stepmother Miki for the first time. She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes. We walked along the beach near the water. Along the way we came across a purple rock. It was impossibly
sparkly. I brought it back to my mothers house as if it were a real diamond.

The next day, a bigger kid approached me with a pack of Rolos, those sweet chocolate candies with caramel in the middle, asking if I wanted to trade them for my rock. I quickly agreed and ate the entire pack in minutes. I instantly regretted my decision.

For years I told that story to illustrate the importance of holding on to something meaningful and never trading it for something temporary. The truth is, everything is temporary. Also, Rolo’s are gross. My adult palate has changed. However, I will always have the memory of the purple rock
and meeting my new stepmother.

The house where dad and his new wife lived with my step brother, had a pool. I can recall two incidents while visiting there. I chipped my heel bone on the pool bottom and I got into my stepmother‘s medicine cabinet,  inserted her contact lenses, getting them stuck to the back of my eyeballs.

There was also a strange parenting moment when my dad asked me if I wanted a spanking, or ice cream? I thought ,” What are you stupid? Of course I want ice cream.” Dad proceeded to put an entire carton of ice  cream in a giant bowl and dare me to eat it. If I failed, then I would get that spanking. Clearly this man did not know my ice cream eating capabilities or how stubborn I could be.

All I know is- I did NOT get a spanking that day!

At my mother’s house I got into mischief by cutting up my fingertips playing with her razor blades, and attempting to use the oven by myself, nearly burning the house down. Inconsistent parenting and lack of emotional regulation weren’t just troubling symptoms for my mother. Her  undiagnosed mental illness was hurting her children. Soon it would change everything.

My mother was very, very angry. She had been getting ready for work. As we were about to get in the car to go to the babysitter’s house, she realized my brother had pooped in his pants.Enraged, she stripped off his clothes and put him in the tub. Continuing to scream, she began filling it with water. Steam began to rise along with my brother’s cries.

The first time I recalled this scene, I was in my therapists office for EMDR therapy. After thinking about this memory for a few minutes with my eyes closed, concentrating on my emotions, when my therapist prompted me, I opened my eyes and began following her fingers back-and-forth.

“What’s coming up?” she asked as we paused for a few minutes.
“I thought I was in the water.” I said incredulously .
“I wasn’t in the water!” “ Of course I wasn’t! Why would I be? It doesn’t make any sense to strip down both kids does it?“

I had told myself for years that I was in the water. That the reason I didn’t get burned was because I was nearly 3 years older than my brother. My skin was tougher. In reality I was engaging in extreme empathy.

“That’s the nature of traumatic memory, Naome”. Your young mind could not handle what was happening at that time and did what it could to protect you.”

After dropping us off at the babysitters apartment, my mother went to work. My brother continued to cry. The babysitter changed his diaper and discovered why when his skin peeled off with the diaper.

I remember standing in the parking lot looking up at the hospital with my brother waving down to us from the window. That, and all the toys people gave him! They filled up the entire backseat of the car!

Court records show that my father and stepmother were awarded full custody of my brother and me on July 3, 1972. I was shocked to find out that my mother still retained the same visitation rights that my father had prior to the revised custody arrangement. She never exercised that right.

I remember the day we left mother’s house. We three kids sat in the backseat of the powder blue 1968 Volkswagen sedan and shared an orange soda. I concentrated on the cold sweetness, trying to ignore the overweight woman in a flowered muumuu, running across the lawn, throwing herself onto the grass, screaming, “ My babies! My babies!”

Our brand new family of five left her behind, towards what should have been a happy ending. Unfortunately the trouble was just beginning.

Naome Bradshaw

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