The ancient Mayans believed as the native Americans today still believe  that life and the path we find ourselves on is all about remembering.  They believe that all the truth and Knowledge of the universe and of all our yesterdays and tomorrows is  within us.   etched in our DNA.  They believe that all we need to know …we already know if only we would peel back the layers we have wrapped ourselves in , we would find the truth, the tools, the ultimate in who we really are and who we are meant to be.  Why do we try to so hard to forget when our very essence holds all this truth?  Truth is not relative to the seeker. Your truth may allow you to see that all plants and trees of this world are actually black, yet from the beginning of time the general truth is that all plants and trees are green. Is there only one truth? Perhaps if we all find our truth we can find how it blends perfectly with everyone else’s truth once they find and live it?  In my search for remembering the ultimate truth of my existence, my path, i am forced to remember where it all started for me. Where this path of mine began. Where i came from.  The memories do not come in chronological order for me.  LIke flashbacks  swift and random they inundate me whenever they choose. Or am i the one choosing these moments of remembering?

Terry(short for Tyrone) was in the living room.  I was hiding behind the couch.  i can still hear my sister Keller screaming.  The pounding of my heart nearly drowned her out as i could hear it beating loud from my ears, my chest, my skin.  Terry was laughing and before i ran behind the couch i saw the look of pleasure on his face. Even at age 7 i knew to question what is wrong with someone who would find pleasure in such morbidly grotesque behavior. I do not remember where my brother Mitchell was.  I knew i was NOT dreaming and this was really happening. I knew Terry was a monster but i wasn’t old enough yet to think ten steps ahead of the game in order to guess what might happen next.  That came later.  My mind was racing yet it seemed i could not form one complete thought.  This was my first memory of experiencing panic.  Mom was never home and my bully (mild understatement) brother Terry was up to his mind games with us.  He came up with the idea to take his own fecal matter and chase us around the house with it.  He kept yelling that he was gonna make me wear it, make me taste it.  Are there words to describe a seven year old girls moment of terror?  I tried to reason with myself that at least he wasn’t angry and ready to use one of us as a punching bag.  I tried to wrap my brain around the idea that he was going to catch me being soo much bigger and stronger.  I tried to prepare myself to accept that he was going to smear this disgusting handful of feces all over me.  Moments like these offer more challenges than opportunity to gain gifts and strengths as its so difficult to know what good can come from surviving this kind of traumatic torture. More often than not, children who grow up in this environment tend to remain more damaged than strengthened.  Retelling the memory forces a surviver to relive every moment described.  I am still unsure if i really gained anything positive or productive from that experience.  Perhaps the gift i received was hidden in the strength required to endure it?