pause, play, *press* record

When I was five-years old I received an immunization shot in my right thigh. I must have flexed my muscle when the doctor inserted the needle, which tracks given my deep fear of needles and the ensuing kicking of nurses and screaming as they held me down anytime blood was drawn.

Arriving home, I painfully walked up the stairs to the second floor of our duplex only to be told a short while later I had to go back downstairs, to the first floor, where my grandparents resided. I was in pain. It hurt to walk, even more to descend stairs. I expressed this sentiment to my mother who accused me of lying and angrily demanded that I walk down the stairs. Through my tears of pain I recall feeling doubly wounded because my five-year old self was not being listened to. Left to my own devices, I sat down on the landing and began to descend the wooden stairs, butt first.

Memories of my childhood are sporadic, brief snippets here and there. And yet this is one of my earliest memories. I can recall the deeply painful ache in my right thigh, worsened with every step. The smooth feel of the hard, wooden stairs beneath my hands as I braced myself to scoot down each step and the shift of energy in my mother’s demeanor once she finally believed (when my butt and I arrived at the first landing) that what I was telling her was the truth.

It was perhaps the beginning of what would become many moments of feeling not heard or being misunderstood. Of deciding that I needed to be my own savior. Of choosing stubbornness and resolve over softness and vulnerability because the latter would not serve me despite my best efforts. It became a permanent groove in my record of life.

I no longer exist in a state of needing to understand the narratives or wounding behind stories that have obviously impacted me throughout my life. But I remain curious about them. Like vinyl on repeat, it serves as a reminder that this was something that deeply impacted that adult me has the power to pause, play, record and turn down.