Katie Beers by Buried Memories: Katie Beers' Story

Author:Buried Memories: Katie Beers' Story [Story, Buried Memories: Katie Beers']
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780985247843
Amazon: 0985247843
Publisher: Titletown Publishing, LLC
Published: 2013-01-13T05:00:00+00:00

FORCED MEMORY

I was told I had to remember. Details. Dates were absolutely necessary too. Investigators with the DA’s office took me to the Riverhead library to browse through old newspaper archives on microfiche. Sal used to get the newspaper every day, so if I could simply recognize a headline, or a comic strip, they could have the needed date and I could be assured Sal would never hurt me or anyone else again.

But neither the headlines nor the comics could jog my memory. All I knew is that Sal had been violating me for as long as I could remember.

Three days a week after school, I would go to Mary Bromley’s office to regain the memories. I never minded going to Mary’s office—she treated me more like a teenager or an adult than a previous therapist had. The first therapist, who I saw briefly, was geared more toward kids. I was a kid, but I didn’t have kid problems. So my foster parents quickly changed gears and brought me to Mary.

Mary’s office was big with a lot of windows and wrap-around book shelves. There were two couches, a big comfy chair, which Mary usually occupied, a coffee table, her desk, and a little table that was kid-sized. The kid-sized table was where I would do arts and crafts, color pictures and play games. I usually sat on the couch with a pillow planted in my lap.

There, I could talk about anything and everything without a care. As I got older, my foster mom would come to some sessions, as would Marilyn. Not that Marilyn and I ever resolved much. She was the child and I was the grown up. I was the one always making excuses for her.

As I grew and made friends and the court cases ended, I went to Mary’s office twice a week, until it dwindled down to once a week; eventually, I would go once every other week. I liked talking to Mary; she was a safe person to confide in, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to worry about protecting anyone but me.

Mary always reminded me of how strong a person I already was. Everyone from the DA’s office, too, would tell me how strong I was to pull through. Most kids who went through what I had gone through, they assured me, would have never been able to withstand a trial. No matter how much preparation they received, they wouldn’t be able to have done that. They told me I was special.

I tried to regain the memories as requested, but it was hard to do after blocking them out for so long. Blocking thoughts was my only way of controlling Sal’s behavior and later Big John’s. If I didn’t think about the dirty things they were doing to me, they wouldn’t happen as often. And even if they did, it was as if it wasn’t happening to me. And so I willed the memories to disappear. Of those that lingered, almost every memory that I have of my childhood is of the abuse I endured.

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