Child Built Walls

Introduction

I don't remember when I decided that I should write this book. The thought had crossed my mind many times before, but I had always felt guilty about putting your shitty actions on display. As if somehow, I would be punished for the public perception of you.

I can't remember when this book became more freeing than a simple idea for revenge. I almost hate the fact that this was my idea of revenge against you. Something so grandiose and silly that it almost seems worthless in comparison. I wish I didn't have to write a book at all, that the thought of letting everything go never came to mind. Because the truth is I love you, and the truth is, people will say you did the best you could.

And you did. You did what you were taught and you broke cycles that your father portrayed on you. But in the end, I was still left hurt, sowing closed the wounds you created and refused to acknowledge. And maybe you didn't know how to fix the wounds you made, but I wish you would've tried instead of leaving my messy hand work to scar over marred skin.

I would rather have a wound, messily closed and jagged in scarring, mixed with your handwork and drippled out sorries kissing the skin better. Then the scars I carry now, dug in deep with your dismissals and refusals to pay attention, my handwork shaky and resown at least a dozen or so times. Because Mom kissed wounds look better than shaky child-crafted work.

I hope that, if you end up finding this book or hearing about it, that you will one day forgive me. Just as I am about to forgive you by writing this book. Because I do love you, I just don't love what you did. You are my favorite person, my world, and sunshine smiles. I do love you more than anything. But I wish you loved me more than you loved your castle walls.

I love you, please know that before anything else. That I love you more than the stars and the sky. This work is my love, and it is also my cry.

- Your eldest daughter.

How does one start a book about this?

I guess there are many different answers but as a nineteen-year-old, stuffed and locked into their bedroom. There surprisingly aren't many, no answers but to stew and hope for inspiration to strike some point soon.

But I guess one good way to start. Is to just start talking.

The first real memory that I can recall, is in black and white. I can't remember if it was a dream, or if this is really just how babies viewed themselves. But during this memory, I was laid in my crib, a small thought bubble above my head, playing out a series of moving pictures. With no real animation other than looking vividly like a stop-motion film.

I remember being told once, that this wasn't a real memory. That it was something I dreamed up as a kid. But for some reason, I can't help but feel attached to the idea that my first memory was so peaceful. Just sleeping in a crib without worry, without thought or struggle. It was just blissful peace. So, even if it was something I managed to dream up out of nowhere, I would still like to think, that somehow my brain managed to hang on to some fragment of that life.

Because my next early memories wouldn't be as peaceful, and later on in life, I would soon struggle to find a time when they weren't hectic or jumbled messes. And my next earliest memories are from the age of three. Some would say it's impressive that I could even remember that far back. But sometimes I can't help but hate the fact that my brain seems to latch onto moments of my life so vividly.