The Child I Used to Be

The Day the Numbers Finally Added Up
By Amanda Kill ©

For years I carried the same memory.

Not the whole story.

Just fragments.

A room.

A feeling.

My nan's house.

Easter eggs.

Birthday excitement.

A little girl who was happy.

The memory has followed me for most of my life, but strangely I never stopped to think about how old I actually was.

I knew it happened.

I knew where I was.

I knew it was Easter.

I knew it was my birthday.

But somehow I never put the pieces together.

Until today.

Today I found myself wondering just how young that little girl really was.

So I did something I had never done before.

I worked out the dates.


I knew Easter and my birthday had fallen on the same day.

I knew that much.

So i calculated it  and there was my shock, i was so little so young but it was

My fifth birthday.

Five.

I sat there staring at the number.

Five.

For years I had carried that memory without an age attached to it.

For years I saw the events.

The feelings.

The confusion.

But not the child.

Not really.

Because when I think of myself now, I see the woman who survived.

The woman who learned to keep going.

The woman who spent years trying to understand trauma.

I do not often stop and see the little girl.

The little girl who was turning five years old.

The little girl who woke up excited because it was Easter.

The little girl who was probably thinking about chocolate eggs and birthday cake.

The little girl who trusted the people around her.

The little girl who had absolutely no way of understanding what was about to happen.

And suddenly everything felt different.

Not because the memory changed.

The memory stayed exactly the same.

But because the child became real.

For the first time I could see her age.

Five years old.

Five.
Five years old.
When I think about that age now, I don't think about myself.

I think about children I know.
Children excited about birthdays.
Easter eggs.
Cartoons.
Playing outside.
Holding their favourite toy
Falling asleep in the car on the way home.
Five years old is so little.
So innocent.
So completely dependent on the people around them.

And yet for most of my life I never stopped to truly see that little girl.
Not until the numbers finally added up.

I think sometimes trauma steals more than memories.

Sometimes it steals perspective.

It makes us look back through adult eyes and forget just how small we once were.

How vulnerable.

How innocent.

How completely dependent on the people around us.

Today the numbers finally lined up.

The memory.

The date.

The birthday.

The age.

And sitting here now, all I can think is this:

She was only five years old.

Just five.

And she deserved so much better.

Five years old

Five years old was the first time that little gril was touched in away she never should have been .

Fuve years old was the first time my innerchild had been touched inappropriately.  

Five years old i was touched in a way i should never have been.

At five yrars old my life changed forever.

At five years old i was taught that love felt wrong
That love wasnt always nice
Love didnt always geel like sunshine
Love wasnt a beautiful rainbow that beought a smile to your face.

Love ia scary
Love gives you yucky feelings inside.
Love means you need to do things even when you dont want to.
Love is crule
Love isnt always kind
Love means secrets
Love means crulness
Love means hurt and pain

I was five yrars old when my brother touched me for the first time

I Wasn't Thirteen

By Amanda Kill ©

For years I said I was thirteen.

Thirteen was the number

I carried in my head.

Thirteen was the age

I attached to the memories.

The drinking.

The secrets.

The lies.

The love I thought was love.

Thirteen.

But today the numbers finally lined up.

And suddenly everything changed.

I wasn't thirteen.

I was twelve.

Twelve.

I say it out loud

and it still doesn't feel real.

Twelve years old

the first time I got drunk.

Twelve years old

the first time he put me to bed.

Twelve years old

the first time I thought a grown man loved me.

Twelve years old.

For years,

one year didn't seem like much.

But now I look at a twelve-year-old child

and my heart breaks.

Because twelve isn't grown.

Twelve is still a kid.

Twelve still laughs too loud,

dreams too big,

and believes the people they love

will keep them safe.

Because twelve is still a child.

Twelve still plays games.

Still watches cartoons.

Still wants someone to tell them

they matter.

Still wants someone to choose them.

Still wants someone to love them.

And I did.

God, how I did.

I loved him with everything I had.

I skipped school to see him.

Caught buses across town.

Tapped on windows.

Waited for scraps of attention

like they were oxygen.

I thought he was my safety.

My shield.

My rescue.

My forever.

But he wasn't.

He was never my saviour.

He was part of the reason

I needed saving.

I thought he was the answer.

Now I know

he was part of the question.

The thing that breaks me most

is not what happened.

It's knowing that little girl

believed she was loved.

That she would have followed him anywhere.

That she begged him to stay.

That she thought losing him

would kill her.

And she was only twelve.

Not thirteen.

Twelve.

A child.

A child carrying things

she was never meant to carry.

A child trying to earn love

that should never have come with conditions.

A child trying to understand feelings

she was far too young to name.

Today the numbers finally added up.

And the truth hit harder

than any memory ever has.

I wasn't thirteen.

I was twelve.

And that changes everything.

Amanda Kill ©

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