a dark void

the time lost due to denial and trauma are making me so very uneasy.
To have to face the fact that, verbal abuse and constant subjection to a huge lie by my mother and the way she micro-managed all of my time as a 12 year old, and older, really astounds me when I see how nearly totally my memory of the event of my son's birth was wiped out of my reality.
I say 'nearly totally', not because I was able to figure out what was bothering me at an early stage, but because the edges of memory were always there, and the puzzle always haunted me, day and night, decades.

I have to deal with the fact that, since my reputation as having a very accurate memory of most things from my past, people struggle to accept my blank spots as being valid now that I am finally able to put the pieces in place for the entire picture.
Imagine if you will, that you are seated at a table with a jigsaw puzzle to build, and as you work your way around the edges, your mind tries to figure out what the final image will be like, because the box had no photo to work from. You can identify clouds, bits of sky, tree tops, grass, water, etc., but until you get the entire middle in place, you have to guess if it is a neighborhood, or a zoo, or a park setting, or maybe a farm.
Now, imagine there is a huge hole in your own life like that. You remember the birthdays, the school days, the friends, the kids who bullied you, and you remember fear. Sometimes you remember being attacked, and every tiny detail of it blasts your mind like a Cinemax movie 3 stories high, with 3-D and stereo sound and smell........ the smells are the worst. You can't get rid of them with perfume or extra helpings of hot fudge sundaes.
Going for long drives in the country alone helps put things into focus, but you have to go home, raise the kids, do chores, deal with the simpering idiot-child husband........ and be ignored all over again.

Sometimes you drink too much. Sometimes you watch tv all day.
Sometimes you write a novel, but never finish it. Sometimes you rabidly and ferociously paint on canvas until your emotions spatter the living space. Sometimes you bake massive quantities of fresh breads and cookies and pies, so you won't burst apart in tears, and everyone thinks everything is fine.

Thinking back, you remember only seeing your face and hair and teeth in the mirror, and can't let yourself see what happened to your body.
You would choose your clothing by colors combinations, and always try to bring the focal point to your face, and, unlike other 12 year old girls, are forcing your every increasing girth into a girdle because your mother tells you you can't leave the house otherwise. When you were sitting at home in the living room, you were expected to ALWAYS clutch a big sofa pillow to your chest, like you need a security blanket or a teddy bear and there isn't one. Nobody knows your mother made you do that so your profile of large belly would be hidden.

I still hate to see my body in the mirror. I am dieting again. And exercising a bit. I want tent dresses and monotone dark outfits and jewelry that attracts attention upward, still, 44 years after the fact.

How hard would it have been for my mother to care how I felt?
She never gave me a moment to say. EVER.