This is What I Call It: The Memory Keeper by guest @1JULIEANDERSON

*Trigger Warning*

Please welcome author, editor, supermodel Julie Anderson, co-founder of Feminine Collective, to my blog today. Julie is a survivor, powerhouse author, fundraiser, advocate for women and children, mother, model, and above all, a deep, vulnerable, beautiful soul. I’m forever grateful to have met her. 

Born breach 27 hours after my mother started labor, I was welcomed as my parents’ first child. Their baby girl.

My mother and father were young. Twenty-one and twenty-two. I used to think that they were old, new parents. Now I know that they were green. Young and green.

Both of my parents worked full-time and very hard to provide for our little family. They did not have family that could help them keep an eye on me. It was just the three of us — for seven years.

I have seven memories from that time in my life.

The first memory is the one that involves me eating one of the dog’s biscuits. I remember wanting to try one because I figured it must taste like a cookie. It looked like a cookie. It tasted like cardboard.

The second memory is the one that involves me eating the entire jar of honey. In one sitting. I was hiding under the kitchen counter, out of sight, and I just could not stop myself.  To this day, my love affair with sweets continues.

The third memory is one that I still can’t figure out. I remember sitting crossed legged, in the middle of the living room. I was facing my mother. Sedentary in an armchair, her silhouette was all that I could see.  I could not see her face. I could feel her eyes, though. She sat there and stared at me without saying a word.

The fourth memory is the one that involves my babysitters house. I remember collecting freshly laid eggs from her chicken coop. I remember watching Sesame Street, on her gigantic TV, while lying on her awful orange shag carpet in the wood-paneled living room. I remember the babysitter’s husband too. I remember climbing all the way to the top of the tree in their backyard. I remember refusing to come down. I recall my mother; red in the face with embarrassment, standing at the bottom of that tree. Her anger rose like steam; she had to leave work early because I refused to climb down. I was steadfast and determined. I would not abandon the safety of the oak tree.

The fifth memory is a nightmare. One that still flashes in my dreams to this day. The babysitter’s husband was the main character. He had a saw. He was cutting off my arms. I can still see what was left, ragged stubs. I can still hear my screams. I can still see the blood.

The sixth memory is the one where my mother is standing on the front door stoop in her underwear, yelling at me. “Come inside right now!” It’s 5:30 in the morning. I’m in the middle of the road, screaming my head off, and covered in sweat. I had sleepwalked, from my little bedroom, right out the front door. When I hear my mother’s voice, I wake up.

The seventh memory is the one where I collected everything precious to me and ran away. A few dolls, my little tea set, a book, my cheetah stuffed animal and a few crackers; all rolled up in my blanket. I left the house my blanket of goods trailing behind me. I don’t remember where I was going. I don’t quite remember why I decided to leave, other than a vague feeling that I had to protect myself. I made it to the corner. That’s when I heard my mother’s voice. “Come inside right now!”

These memories, they are stored in the vault, filed under “before I was five.”

Forever, it seems like forever, I have carried these fragments. Lost moments in time.

Sometimes the bloody stubs, appear when I am in the bath. Sometimes I dream about sitting in the crook of that old oak tree’s arm. Sometimes I forget that I am no longer small, but I will never forget my mother’s silhouette.

Future Memories

I will never consign to oblivion the day I skipped school. That was the first and last time I was a truant. It also turned out to be the last day I attended high school.

I skipped out that day because of a boy. My high school crush broke up with me, and I was devastated. His best friend suggested we ditch fourth period, to head over to his house so that we could talk about the situation. I remember him passing me a glass of Pepsi. I remember him on top of me. I remember his friends, one after the other on top of me. I remember being sick. I could not move. I could not scream.

I remember going to school the next day.  The kids in the “cool crowd” called me under their breath, “the slut who even fucked the dog.”  I was so ashamed and confused. I went straight to the main office and quit school that day. I never broke my silence about the incident. I never told anyone about being gang-raped. I never explained why I tossed the rest of my school days out the window.

I will never forget the day I was enticed to jump in the policeman’s private car. I will never forget what it was like to feel his pubic hair rub against my freshly shaved gangly 16-year-old legs. I won’t disremember how proud he tried to make me feel when he said “You are an exceptional woman. I never was interested in someone your age before. It’s hard for me ya know? Most women are bitches.”

He was 30. He broke the law.  Again, I never broke my silence.

I will never forget the talent scout. “You are exquisite. You will be a supermodel. I will teach you everything that you need to know.” I remember that he did not “charge” my parents a fee, to attend his modeling workshops. That was the first time I learned that nothing is ever free. I recall the payback. He was 45; I was 17.

My therapist, I don’t remember which one, I have had many – put the pieces of my puzzle together.

It all started with the babysitter’s husband.

I was quiet because I remembered.

I will never fail to remember the loss of my innocence.  I will never forget how much that loss has cost me.

Julie Anderson is a fashion survivor, sort of. After spending decades globe-trotting wearing her “SuperModel” cape, she is now the Creator and Publisher of Feminine Collective.

Feminine Collective provides a platform for stories that mainstream media often denies. . Writers from around the world: women, teenagers and a few good men have contributed to the site, making it dynamic and diversified. Unlike any other site online.

She collaborates with her dynamic business partner, Marla J. Carlton, in a seamless manner. The two women have recently published Feminine Collective: Raw & Unfiltered Volume 1 : Selected Essays and Poems on Relationships with Self and Others. They have also launched the Feminine Collective Foundation, serving at risk women and children.

She is the mother of three human babies and three fur babies. She has been married to photographer Paul Empson for twenty years, because of their careers the family has lived at one time or another, on each continent. They proudly consider themselves global citizens.

An entrepreneur, publisher, writer, actress, fashion model and photographer, Julie has a creative’s vision that has yet to be satiated.

Her personal site: julieandersonofficial.com is the only authorized place on the web that showcases her career, past, present & future.

photos courtesy of Julie Anderson Official and Unsplash

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