There are things- important things, keys to my happiness things, steps to understanding things, prerequisites to healing things- that I cannot remember. Scraps of memories- checkered, striped, painful in plaid and gingham and paisley- litter the carpet of my hippocampus and my frontal cortex. I can't pick them up and discard them because they haunt me, they beg to be sewn together and stitched into a huge quilt, the big picture that will unlock my understanding and begin my journey to healing. They beg me, and I want the pieces of my memories to stop showing up, to stop calling me, but I'm afraid I cannot oblige. It's been said that only the truth will make you free, but I have not discovered enough truth to ignite freedom, apparently. And by 'discovered' I mean 'remembered.' They tell me I need to think about it, that I need to try and remember, they want me to remember exactly what happened, but I can't. I remember what happened the last time I tried to remember, the last time I tried to force my brain to give me the missing pieces of the puzzle, the pieces that will tell me what happened after my underwear hit the floor and before he beat me, the pieces that will tell me what he did to me. I remember nightmares of devils and suitcases and rapes in baptismal pools, I remember crying and crying with my fist at my mouth, blocking my sobs, I remember shaking with fear and disruption, I remember rubbing my thighs, I remember wanting- longing- once again to end my life, so now I don't try to remember. I've read that your mind knows how much you can handle, and it protects you when you aren't ready to deal with the memories. I'm not ready to deal with the memories, and I don't intend to push my mind through system overload in order to try and remember. They tell me to try and remember, they tell me to try and remember, but they don't feel the trauma, they don't wake up sweating in the middle of the night, they aren't here, right now, grappling with the memories that stare up at me from my mind's carpet. If I can't handle what I do remember, how will I face what I have forgotten? I want to forget. I want to forget what I remember. I want to shred the scraps of fabric that are my memories, I want to flush them down the toilet, to toss them in the ocean. I want my memories to go away because I don't know what to do with them. I don't want to talk about it. Yes, I write it out and down, yes, I'll speak it out and loud, but I don't want to sit and discuss it. Nobody will understand the confusion that dwells in my head, and I'm tired of being analyzed and studied, I'm tired of people thinking they know my story and my pain, when, really, they don't know anything at all. I'm tired of being told to remember. I cannot try to remember unless you sit here with me, under the banner of stars, unless you sit behind me, with your arms around me, and help me connect the dots, help me sew each scrap- checkered, striped, painful in plaid and gingham and paisley- together, help me lift it- Corrie turned to her father and asked him "What is sexsin?" Her father asked her to lift his suitcase, but she could not. It was too heavy. Her father told her that some knowledge, like that suitcase, is too heavy, and that she should trust him to carry it for her until she is able- Help me lift it, for it is too heavy. It is too heavy for me to carry by myself. These memories are my suitcase, this quilt is the knowledge that I am not yet ready to face on my own. There are things- important things, keys to my happiness things, steps to understanding things, prerequisites to healing things- that I cannot remember. When I am ready, will you help me? Will you help me lift it up so I can let it go?