I miss my Blankie. I had this white blanket that I loved. I remember using it to cover me and comfort me. I would draw it through my fingers to feel the fuzzy edges buzz against my skin. It was white and I loved it.
I remember holding it between my abuser and myself; I think it helped me disassociate from what was happening to me. I could pretend I was inside a tent while whatever happened to my lower half happened. I’m still not clear on the details. In fact, I’m pretty sure I tried to use it as a shield once to keep from being violated which angered my attacker.
Blankie was taken away from me by my parents. They told me I was too old for it. I don’t know how old I was at this point; I do know that I was devastated. I know I raised my voice. I know my face got red. I know that I cried and my heart raced. I know that a piece of that day broke off and wiggled down deep inside of my chest because it was too much pain for me to feel at that age.
One parent has since told me that they never quite understood why my reaction was so strong. They also apologized for being a party to taking my blanket away. Since this conversation took place before my repressed memories started pushing through, I didn’t know either; I just knew how I felt. I knew I still held a childish hope that Blankie might be found again in a box somewhere. I knew that it still made me so angry and sad to think of losing it.
And now I understand more why this blanket was so important to me and why taking it away from me really hurt me. I guess I was technically “too old” for it, but this is just one more way my mind was indicating to the world that I needed help, that things were not okay, that I was being made to deal with things that no child (or person?) can really handle.
I sometimes think about Blankie and wonder if it’s possible to find another one just like it.