A Language Older Than Words - Derrick Jensen [7]
My father's first visit to my bedroom did not abrogate the deal. It couldn't because without the deal I could not have sur vived the violence he did to me, just as I'm sure that without a similar deal, that removed him from his own experience, my fa ther could not have perpetrated the violence. In order to main tain the illusion that if I ignored the abuse I would be spared the worst of it—in order to maintain the illusion of control in an uncontrollably painful situation, or simply to stay alive, even if I had to divorce myself from my emotions and bodily sensations— the events in my bedroom necessarily did not happen. His body behind mine, his penis between my legs, these sensations and images slipped in and out of my mind as easily and quickly as he slipped into and out of my room.
It's probably best if you don't believe a word I say.
What I wrote about my father beating and raping us simply isn't true. I was not only wrong, I was lying. My childhood was nothing like that, because if it had been, I couldn't have sur vived. No one could survive that. So the truth not only is but especially must be that my father never chased Rob around the house, and my mother and sisters never threw pans and glasses of water on him trying to make him stop. That would all have been just too implausible. Oh, he may have gotten a little out of control when he spanked one or the other of us, but he never beat anyone to the ground, then kicked her again and again. And rape? Out of the question. The constant insomnia, the incessant nightmares, the painful and itching anus, all these had their origin in some source other than my father. The same was true for my nightly ritual of searching my room, and later, barri cading my door. Doesn't every child have a terror of someone catching him asleep?
I do not remember—I specifically do not remember—sitting at the table for dinner early one summer evening, and I do not remember my father asking my brother where he was the night before. I don't recollect if my brother said he went to an amuse ment park. But if my brother had said that, my father would never have asked him how much it cost to get in. And most certainly if my brother had said an amount, in response to this question that was never asked, my father would not have lunged at him across the table, not even if my brother's answer was in correct, meaning my brother had not gone to the amusement park but instead perhaps to a bar. Food would not have scattered. My brother would not have made a break for the door, only to be cut off by the bottleneck at the refrigerator. My father would never have called him a cocksucking asshole stupid fuck, nor would he have begun to pummel him. My sisters would not have screamed, and my mother would not have clutched at my father's back. My brother would not have broken free only to stumble, fall, and get kicked in the kidneys. None of this happened. None of it could have happened. I swear to you. My brother could not have made it to his feet, and made it out the door and to his car, a pink Camaro, if you can believe that. My brother would not have locked the doors, and even if he had it would never have occurred to my father to kick in the side of the car. And even if by some strange chance all this did happen, I can tell you for certain that I do not remember continuing to sit at the table, a seven-year-old trying desperately not to be noticed, trying to disappear.
I can tell you for certain also that I was never, even as a young child, awakened and summoned to the living room to watch someone get beaten. This