The Truth

I read the first few pages of a book aimed for new writers recently where the author stated that in order to right a story one must first write the truth. I shall practice this now. I promise to write the truth as I remember it.
I don’t have a solid first memory of my father – that’s to say of him, and me, alone, together – In my mind when I try to think back I can only associate him with my mother. I have plenty of memories of her alone with me and stuff we did together but none of him. That is weird because I know for a fact that we did spend a lot of time together.

The other day he was talking at me and said a really strange thing. He said ‘I didn't raise you that way’ and immediately I thought: YOU didn't raise me, at all. As soon as the thought was forged in my mind I knew it was true. So here I am trying to think back to times spent with my father. Alone. Still nothing.

My two earliest memories, in no particular order are when my left Achilles got caught on our front gate because I was running away from our dog, didn't pay attention as it slammed shut, I remember because it was the first time I saw my own blood. My second memory is of my mother leaving Gabriella who was a baby at the time alone in the house so she could drive us to school, go to work. You see I was less than five years old at the time so I had no concept of work or bills or the 10 minutes it would take the nanny to arrive at our house, I just remember feeling petrified about leaving her alone. The thing is I've never really stopped being scared since that day. You will understand why soon.

I remember the day I stopped liking my father like it was yesterday: I was 7 years old and he beat me because I wouldn't smile for the camera.

He came home very late one day we were all in bed sleeping woke us up Cindy me Vanessa and Gabriella lined us up and tried to take the picture. But, I wasn't smiling so he warned me, but then I got scared and when you’re 7 it’s very hard to smile when you’re scared. I was almost in tears I remember concentrating like hell to keep the tears back but he saw; which am guessing is the straw that broke the camels’ back. He took me into the bathroom and beat me with his belt. Then took the photo again.

Not many people can say they have pictorial evidence of the day they lost all respect for their father. Unfortunately I can. Why haven’t I ripped it up? Burned it? I don’t know. Every time I look at it I am reminded of the girl in the picture and the man behind the camera so I guess the reason why I don’t destroy the photo is because destroying it won’t get rid of the memory. And now you understand.

Now, I don't know what I'm going to do with my life/break the cycle of pain but am guessing if I can keep writing a little bit of truth everyday the only way is up right?
XXO