Posted by GMGittins
16th Feb 2014

Welcome to another PTSD blog, another flashback.

These traumatic memories are more real than real life. I feel like I'm in a trance; the

memory plays itself out with the accompanying emotion and blots out real life.

I'm four years old. I know that by the house we lived in where the memory is set. A one-up,
one-down house with toilet at the end of the street.

I'm standing inside. Not knowing where to look, because my dad is very drunk and being
amorous towards my mum, who is trying to shake him off. It's Sunday, after the pub has
closed and we've had our dinner. Life revolves around pub opening and closing times, you
see. And the home brew.

It's the usual Sunday afternoon routine. He's finished the boasting, his glassy eyes and strange sleepy voice telling me how many pints of Newcastle Brown he's drunk (15) and how he still walked out of the pub.

(Remember the Sunday afternoon he pinned you to his knee and asked you who you loved the most, him or mum? And you said you loved them both the same because you didn't dare tell him the truth?)

"What's the matter with you, Pud? Don't you love me?" He's getting aggressive.I can tell by
how loud his voice is and the way he moves, the expression on his face.
(When I grew up I became a psychiatric nurse)

"Aren't you ready to come to bed yet, Pud?"
He's staring at me. I daren't look him in the eye in case he spots I'm angry, too.

"Time you two were off. Go on! Your mother and me are going to have some nooky, aren't we,
Puddy?" He lunges after her again, grabbing her around her waist with his hands on her
"And if you come back early I'll tan your backsides for you!"

I close the front door solemnly. I take hold of my little sister's hand. She's about two.

From behind, I watch the two of us walk slowly off along the pathway to Sunday School. She's
got shoulder length, thick wavy brown hair tied with a ribbon. There'll be no-one to
protect mum from him now. How can I protect her when I've got to go to Sunday School? What
a waste of time.

I can see myself sitting in a chair next to my little sister.
(My Psychologist says I'm still sitting in that chair)
It's made of pale wood, matt. It has arms, a strip of wood at the back and one along the
top. There's a footrest.

The noise is incredible.
Children are running around the room, yelling, screaming; now and again an adult shouts but
nothing changes. I sit motionless next to my sister and pull a "what a waste of time" face
at her to make her laugh.

We wait.
Finally, it's over and it's time to go back.

They're both still in bed when we arrive, so I decide to go upstairs to tell them we're
back. Will he be asleep by now? Can I hear him? How angry is he now?

Share Email a friend Be the first to comment on this blog