I actually never know where to start. I’m afraid of not being believed, it’s my greatest fear. Writing that chokes me.
My first memory was something of a moment, where I was small, laying on my back on the brown shag living room carpet between a chair and a coffee table. When I looked up, I could see a three blade wooden fan above me, intricate metal connecting it to the spinner in the middle. To my left lay the coffee table, but it was the underside - a press-board sort of wood, rough and textured to the touch. I was having my diaper changed, my legs were being held up. It ends there.
My next memory was of walking into the kitchen from my bedroom, which was directly connected to it. What a ridiculous layout for a house. It was early enough morning that the bright incandescent ceiling lights were still on, and I walked past my door sleepy, struggling to open my eyes against the glare. I rubbed at them, and my father and mother were in there, talking. Mom was… somewhere, not near enough me, and father was across from me, standing by the sink and approaching me. He was loud, too loud, and it made my ears buzz.
He looked to me, his voice booming, “E! Wow, a whole night without a diaper!” and laughed. A hearty, over the top laugh. I felt a heat rising in my cheeks, a confusion and profound embarrassment welling in me as he reached for my shoulder and gave it a shake. “Good job! Now you can go to sleep in your undies, and you didn’t even wet the bed!”
I never wet the bed, not even once. His voice sounded phony.
What was left of the memory was my hands balling my pilled and worn night shirt into clumps at my thighs. I had burst into tears at that point, and heard a frustrated tone from him. And then my memory ends.
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