Thomas Richard Wakefield 1928 - 1955

I have a really good memory for things that happened when I was very small. I can’t remember what I made for dinner last night, but I can draw a diagram of the floor plan of the apartment we lived in when I was two. I think the reason for this is the emotional trauma I suffered, first when my dad died, and then when my second dad died. I know the dates these horrific events occurred, so I have always been able to compartmentalize memories of my life before and after each of them. They say some people bury certain memories deep within their subconscious minds. I clung to mine, because I couldn’t bear to let them go. I can count on one hand the memories I have of my daddy. (He wasn’t my dad, he wasn’t my father. A two year old can only lose her daddy.) And they’re so precious to me. Climbing into bed with my mommy and daddy – I remember him laying there on his back with one of his legs bent at the knee under the covers. I watched him once standing at the bathroom sink washing his hair. I remember him holding me in front of the Christmas tree. I think I remember my feelings of love for him. When he died, I was a couple of weeks shy of three. I remember feeling confused. I remember asking for him. I did not understand the finality of death. I watched my mother’s pain. My life changed.

I’ve always had a sense of my psychic scar. I’ve always felt a kind of panic underneath the surface. Underneath the face I show to the world. I never feel totally safe. I never feel totally loved. This is not a knock against my wonderful husband. I think I chose him because he is such an upright guy, so steady. And he also has such heart – he doesn’t show his emotions but I know he feels things deeply. But anyway, it’s not his fault I have these feelings of panic and need. No one would be able to heal the wound I have. No one.

Basement apartment. Three rooms. There was a step up into the bathroom………..