Worst day, best day.

Grey wispy smoke dissipated in front of my eyes as I sucked it up through and into my throat. I really must buy a pipe, I thought. I’m much to old to smoke weed out of an appropriated beer can.

He asked me what was the worst day of my life and I changed the subject to the best day. When he had asked, for once my brain fired directly to a worst day. Usually I am so locked up in levels of what’s appropriate, what I can tell people, what I should think or feel but right then, in a late night under the influence convo, the memory suddenly hit me in that double vision when you see a real life moment with a memory vision juxtaposed over it. My brown and green earthy colour-schemed apartment, the couch we were sitting on, the dim glow of the lights, and then the bright sunlight and large verandah with ridges on the planks at my childhood home. Then what your eyes see dissolves and you are under the power of your inner vision and the heavy emotions attached to it.

My worst day was a weighty combo of guilt, shame, lies and betrayal. I was 7 and my friend was 9. She told my parents that a family friend had been touching us sexually and on what I can now guess was also one of the worst days in their lives, they asked me about it. I said it wasn’t true, that it never happened. My friend was horrified, angry with me and said I was lying. My mother said that this can sometimes happen that you block it.

I didn’t know this had happened. My brain had told me this didn’t happen. I could feel the feathery edges of some moments but didn’t know if they were real. To this day I have never really explored this. It hurts to try and remember. I felt shame that I might have enjoyed the attention. Guilt that I lied about it and said my friend was lying. I felt so betrayed by my brain falsifying my memory. I was so shocked that this happened and I couldn’t remember.

Back on the couch, I think this memory recall spanned a few seconds before I realised it’s too heavy to share. Not with this person. I’ll save this shit for someone else. Someone who I actually want to see what motivates me or saddens me or why I am the way I am. I did tell him about my best day. The day I lost my virginity. It was to my boyfriend of six months, my best friend at the time, the funniest guy. I felt pleasure and powerful that I was the one who wanted this. I made the choice. Strange that sex is so tied up with both those days of mine.

Just now I remembered that my Dad’s worst day of his life was the day his mother died. He told my sister that once. I don’t need to ask my Mother, I know that one.