The Naked Lady in my mind!

The Naked Lady

There is a memory I carry. Not like other memories. Other memories fade at the edges. This one is sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.

I do not know how old I was. Young enough that my body was still small. Young enough that I did not have words for what was happening. Young enough that I thought this was just what mothers did.

She was naked. I remember that. I remember her body in a way no child should remember their mother's body. Not the abstract nakedness of a bath or changing clothes. Something else. Something that was not for my eyes. Something that was done to me, not with me.

I will not describe the acts. You do not need those details. They are mine. They live in my bones. They wake me up some nights. They have shaped every relationship I have ever had, every time I have said yes when I should have said no, every time I have confused love with violation.

That is enough. That is more than enough.

---

The Memory That Would Not Stay Buried

I tried to forget. For decades, I tried. I built walls. I built addictions. I built a personality that was tough, distant, unreachable. I told myself it did not happen. I told myself I imagined it. I told myself children exaggerate. I told myself she loved me. I told myself she did not know what she was doing.

None of those stories worked. The memory leaked through. In nightmares. In flashbacks. In the way my body would freeze when someone touched me unexpectedly. In the way I could not trust anyone, especially not the ones who said they loved me.

The body remembers. Even when the mind tries to forget. Especially then.

---

The Psychic Who Saw What I Could Not Say

Years later, I went to a psychic. Not because I believe in psychics. Because I was desperate. Because the medication was not enough. Because the fog was thick and the rush was loud and I needed someone, anyone, to tell me why I was broken.

I did not tell her about my mother. I did not tell anyone. It was the secret I carried under my tongue, the one I would swallow before I let it out.

She looked at me. She did not ask questions. She just looked. And then she said: "Your mental illness comes from a childhood trauma. A sexual one. Someone close to you. A woman."

I did not confirm it. I could not. My throat closed. My eyes watered. I sat there, silent, while a stranger described the shape of the thing I had been carrying alone for decades.

She did not know my mother. She did not know me. But she knew. Something in her saw what I had been hiding from myself.

That was the beginning. Not the healing. The beginning.

---

The Diagnosis That Made Sense

The doctors gave me names. Mixed personality disorder. Dopamine imbalances. Medication for life. They asked about family history. They asked about symptoms. They did not ask about my mother.

I do not blame them. They were doing their job. But the psychic saw what the doctors did not. She saw the root. The original wound. The one that poisoned everything that grew after.

I do not know if she was right. I do not know if trauma causes mental illness or just looks like it or lives alongside it. But I know this: after she said those words, something in me shifted. The shame began to loosen. Not because I was healed. Because I was seen.

---

The Naked Lady

I have written many posts. The hen. The lamb. The bull. The cigarette. The alcohol. The love. But I have never written this. I have never said it out loud, not really, not to anyone.

My mother sexually used me.

Those words are still hard to type. My hands are not steady. My chest is tight. The old rush is back. The one that makes me want to light something, drink something, disappear into something.

But I am not going to disappear. I am going to leave these words here. For myself. For anyone else who carries a similar memory and has never said it.

You are not alone. You are not dirty. You are not broken because of what was done to you. You were a child. You did not choose this. You did not deserve this.

The naked lady in my memory is not a stranger. She is my mother. And I have spent my whole life trying to love her and hate her and forget her and understand her. I have not succeeded. I do not think I ever will.

But I have stopped carrying the secret alone. That is something. That is not nothing.

---

Last Note

I do not know how to end this. There is no neat conclusion. There is no moral. There is just the memory, the confession, the small relief of putting it down.

If you are reading this and something in you recognizes something in me — I am sorry. I am sorry that you know. I am sorry that you carry. I am sorry that the people who were supposed to protect you were the ones who hurt you.

You did not deserve it. You were a child. You are not what happened to you.

That is all I know. That is all I have.

The naked lady. My mother. My first betrayer. The wound that never healed. The one I am finally naming.

Not for revenge. Not for pity. Just for the truth.

The truth is this: she used me. And I survived. And I am still here, writing, breathing, trying.

That is not closure. That is just the next breath. And the next. And the next.

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