A guy from one of my foster homes contacted me. That’s an awkward way to avoid saying foster brother. The longest I was in a foster home was six months. I don’t consider any of those people family. That sounds mean. It’s not supposed to. Sorry, guy, if you’re reading this. I don’t mean to offend, but you’re not my brother.
He called his parents, who called me and said that I could stay with them in Lexington until I “got back on my feet”. This is going to sound terrible but I don’t remember them. I don’t have a great memory of childhood. What I do remember, I wish I didn’t.
I listened to an audio book that said repressed memories are fiction. Either you remember something or you don’t. The idea of hidden memories that have to be teased out is bullshit.
Sometimes you don’t remember bad stuff. I forget the term they used, but they talked about how if soldiers are in a warzone for long enough, they just stop remembering what they’re doing. The memories aren’t hidden where they could be discovered later, they never get made.
In those days I used to get blackout drunk whenever I could afford it. And I did dabble with drugs at times. I don’t think I did it enough to really damage my memory, but it doesn’t help.
This was a very generous and charitable offer. It drove me insane with rage. I understand enough about myself to know that I have issues accepting help from people. Probably in part because I have issues trusting people. Usually I’m able to overcome that feeling and accept help when I need it.
Except when it comes to any of my foster families. Or social workers, or anyone that’s a part of “the system”. Probably a psychologist would say that this is a result of anger stemming from feeling that the system failed me. That I feel betrayed on account of all the bad shit that happened to me. I don’t think that’s true, but that’s the problem with psychiatry. The whole scam is that you don’t know your thoughts.
Anyway, thanks for the offer bro. I appreciate it even though I don’t.
Rocket Cat 