Pour it in black and white, she said, it will do you way better than verbalizing it. It needs to go through ten fingers, rather than through two compressed lips, being harassed by a tongue. Trust it to paper, she said. The she was the therapist who is reading this now.

As one talks, you move forward in time, walking down a linear path, from which it is difficult to stray while you look back, as the seconds strud forwards, legs side by side, open and close, as if time was the perpetual whore, walking around in your dark past. In this way, while talking, I get even further and further removed from the time that stopped (me in) my development. Writing allows one to work outside of time and I silently suffocate my voice when I brusquely chop the words into letters when my fingers hammer on the keyboard. The letters come. The S. The O. So this is me, here I am, battered.

The child says: Mama is not allowed to be my mama.

The therapist says: What we have here is a clear and severe case of early childhood attachment trauma.

One child says: I feel disgust for mommy, and contempt for mommy and delight that mommy suffers.

An other child says: I can’t bear the feeling of disgust and contempt and pleasure. It’s not right. It’s like swallowing a monster.

The kid with the big shoes says, whose contribution was blotted out due to white noise in the heart, says: I think I’m an adult, or a therapist, or whatever, -hey smart ass!- but I just wanted to say that it’s not healthy for a mother to seek emotional support from her child for struggles in her own marriage. This female adult should be discussing things like this with a good friend or a sister or something. Or with a therapist or something. But I don’t want to be a therapist.

Then a child without a name talks in a very frightened and low voice: Can I please just not exist anymore? Is that allowed? Can someone turn me off? Hello?

Jesus is silent.