A 'lightbulb' moment

During a recent personal therapy session, I was attempting to process my thoughts regarding visiting my father in hospital. I really struggle visiting him on the ward. I mirror his agitation and restlessness. Although mine is internal; outwardly I appear calm. I struggle to sleep at night after spending time with him as my mind is far too 'busy'.

I wondered if his injuries unnerved me. One wound in particular captures my focus every time. It looks like a burn. I wonder what caused it. He is covered in bruises but this is definitely not a bruise.

As I sat in my chair, a shuddering shockwave ran up my spine from my lower back, through my neck and my whole head shook. I crumpled into a heap of distress and tears. At first my therapist did not realise what was happening so she filled the empty space with words. I was silent. I could not speak. She stopped and took a good long look at me.

....

The image that was staring me in the face was of a young, frail girl lying in her bed, face down roaring her silent screams into her pillow. A man, her father, switching off the light as he walked out of her bedroom whilst slamming the door loudly behind him. The young lass had red weals and purple bruises erupting on her lower back as the stinging pain crescendoed around the room.

She would lie there in wet sheets until the house was silent and she was certain he had gone to sleep. The stress of another beating had been all too much for her little body and she had wet the bed once again. It was a regular occurrence, a trauma response. As she shed silent tears from her eyes, she flooded the bed too. But she would dare not make a fuss as that would result in another hiding.

Her mind was whirling and blank simultaneously - if that is possible. What did she do to cause that beating? The amount of pain in her little body was disproportionate to its size.

Her practical mind kicked in. She needed to get up and change her bedding. Her Mum had hidden clean bedding in her wardrobe for just such times and she would quietly change her bedding, praying that the ancient, wobbly bed frame would not squeakily creak too much to wake the house up. She would hide the wet bedding under her bed until the morning when her Mum could camouflage it with the other washing.

No one would come to comfort her. Her Mum was also in the house but would be too scared and numb with shock to intervene. Her dog lived in a kennel in the back garden. She was on her own.

She would wipe away her tears, climb back onto her bed and lie there in a daze until morning.

....

Once I was able to speak, I explained that I had just had a 'lightbulb' moment - a major realisation. As I may have mentioned before, when I was younger another relative used to burn me with cigarettes and my father's 'burn' mark had reminded me of that difficult time in my life.

So when I walk into the hospital ward and see a frail, small distressed, bruised body lying in the bed.... am I witnessing my elderly father or my younger self?

One major difference.

Others are there to care for him.