Below is the Prologue from my memoir, I Never Heard A Robin Sing.
So many of us who were sexually abused as a child have lived in a prison most of our lives. We have no idea what happened to us at an early age that swirled us into a life of anguish, fear, insecurity and escape, in whatever form it will take. Dark shadows follow us; they live with us. We have no idea what they mean only that it brings deep, debilitating pain into our life.
P R O L O G U E
For most of my life, I lived in a prison. My sentence as well as my release began in the northeast corner of Nebraska, a small farming community called Petersburg. For over thirty years, its memory, linked to my unconscious, kept me alive. During that time I escaped into my mind whenever possible, reliving the joys of Boone County.
I opened my bedroom window to the fragrance of a lilac bush brushing against the window screen. The sight of the willow tree as its leaves trailed along the grass entranced me, a ballerina dancer captured by the early morning air. Mother Nature with its oppressive heat and humidity drifted in the summertime like an overhanging mist, creeping into the flower garden, sprinkling sunlight on bachelor buttons, carnations, nasturtiums and yellow roses that crept up the trellised archway, on purple iris that bordered the house. Country roads beckoned me in autumn and I passed groves of cottonwoods at Rae Creek where I climbed barefoot over the fence and hiked through the woods to stand beneath my oak tree. There I saw a robin singing loud, her lilting sound creeping into my soul as she heralded my approach into the only sanctuary I would ever know. A branch reached across the waters of the creek and I relived crawling across it to the end, swinging to the other side and landing in huddled masses of leaves.
Memories of spider-webbed trees with naked limbs transported me back in time to Midwestern winters where snowflakes caressed the windows, teasing Jack Frost and melting ice crystals formed in flowerbeds and coated branches of trees. I watched the earth as it snuggled up to its white mantle, passing time in contemplation, while stillness, dark and shadowy, permeated the countryside and the cold drifted like a furtive stalker. Once again, I skated along the icy layer of the Beaver River, following the bends, deer and rabbits racing along with me, my face red from the biting cold, as the frozen water crackled and settled.
There is a down side to having vivid recall; dark undercurrents of the tragedies run parallel with the joys. The ability to live in my memories cushioned the blows of abusive relationships, suicide attempts, nervous breakdowns, waking up in Psychiatric Wards, painful days in a woman’s shelter and always the nightmares and dark shadows of an unremembered trauma.
I didn’t choose my life. It chose me. If I want to go back to the beginning, I have to pass this memory first.
In a tiny bedroom, a young girl lies, swirled in dreams of innocence. A shaft of moonlight beams through worn drapes, exposing yellowed wallpaper and stark metal bunk beds. Nestled asleep in the lower bunk, she draws thin, coltish legs closer to her chest as her breathing deepens and her eyelids flutter. Wispy brown hair, scattered about her face, frames small bones and delicate features. A rosary creeps from under the pillow, its beads still warm with prayer, the cross dangling above the hardwood floor. Under the bed, a multi-colored mutt named Rusty hiccups his way through his own nighttime visions as he twitches in time to a windup clock that sits in protective watch on the dresser. A three-year old child sleeps in a crib nearby. A younger sister lies in the upper bunk unaware of the impact the trauma of the next few minutes will have on her life.
As slumber guards the scene, the handle on the door turns, creaking in protest. It opens
slowly, shrouding the room in a hazy light. A tall man, gray slivering his temples, casts sharp shadows that spill into the corners. He watches for a moment as she sleeps, then enters, closing the door in a surreptitious manner.
Her life will never be the same.
I buried the memory of what happened deep in my unconscious mind, to be lost for over thirty years, as my emotional growth became locked in time. At the age of thirteen, I didn’t even know the meaning of the word rape, much less incest.
I Never Heard A Robin Sing is now available on amazon.com as a Kindle, soon to be in Paperback form. My writer’s website is at http://www.marjoriewrites.thelamplighters.org/index.html
My book page on amazon.com is at
