I have a junk drawer;  I even have a junk cupboard – places for things that don’t have a place.  And, I had a dare-I-say-it, junk room.  I hated it.  As I cleaned the rest of the house things that didn’t have a permanent place just kept getting thrown into this room.  A room that has had several purposes over the last 7 years:  a formal dining room, a makeshift office, a nursery, a craft room.  I want it to be my office space.  A nice office with a real desk and real storage, but first I need to wrap my head around what to do with all the stuff that is in there now.

We would lie in his bed, watching TV and he’d fondle me.  I don’t know if he penetrated me.  I just don’t know.  But I do know there were times that he’d insist that I return the favor.  I remember what I think was the first time he unbuttoned his jeans and took my hand in his, pushing it under the waistband of his underwear, until it reached his coarse pubic hair.  My tiny fingers reached his penis.  It was warm down there.  I pulled my hand back.  He pushed it back down.  That’s the last thing I remember.

He allowed me to work at my own pace, attend my doctor’s appointments and take care of myself above all else because by this time, I was damaged.  Damaged beyond immediate repair.  By this time, if I wasn’t crying at my computer, I would fall asleep at it, with my hands still on the keys.  I’d take naps during lunch breaks.  Sometimes I’d grab a piece of paper and just doodle.  Eventually, among the  depression, anxiety, and PTSD, I was diagnosed with a sleep disorder – Period Limb Movement Disorder (PLMD), but my depression ran deep.  And, so did the damage.