“People who get nostalgic about childhood were obviously never children.” ~ Calvin, to Hobbes
An idea has been rattling around in my mind for a while now. It sounds simple enough and maybe even fun: write down some happy childhood memories to share with my family, past, present, and future. But it’s not so simple. Every time I think about it, seriously consider starting, I find myself waist-deep in an emotional briar patch.
I’m sure everyone has things that he or she doesn’t like to think about, but I’ve made repression a way of life. It’s a twisted art form, learning to cope with trauma by shoveling six feet of dirt onto memories. Unfortunately, the good often gets buried along with bad, so I find myself in my twenties barely remembering my teens, much less earlier times.
I stare at this photograph
and remember my cat–his name (Hudson Taylor), his affiliations (Mimi the PMS-y wifecat), and his hobbies (poetry, cross stitch, world travel)–but I can’t remember my interaction with him. I can’t remember rocking him or wearing yellow overalls or being six years old.
I find this photo
and can’t remember my first ballet class, my first year of ballet classes even. I don’t know if I enjoyed it or if I liked my teacher or if I was any good. I wonder how long it took for my knobby-kneed legs to learn French. (And plié, and up, and pas de bourrée, jeté battu…)
I come across this one (I’m the third from the left)
and remember the way the girls laughed, my first batch of genuine friends since first grade. I remember the pranks we pulled and the atrocious poetry we wrote and the boys we used to giggle about, but I don’t recall who I was in junior high. I’m told I was the one who suggested we smoke birthday candles, but was I really that silly? When did I start pulling my hair up? What was my life like at home, away from my friends?
The answer to that last question is the reason I used to cry and shake and write “fuck” in my journal and think about the afterlife in very near terms. Then I went the therapeutic route, talking to close friends, writing everything down, turning my brain inside-out so the pain could float away on the breeze. At least, I hoped it would float away, and when it didn’t, I started shoveling.
I’m now realizing that I’ll have to dig around in the graveyard for even the happiest memories, and let me tell you, it’s a mess. Fragments of memory are scattered like misplaced bones. Unmarked graves hold mental snapshots, many of them moldy and disintegrating. The dirt clings to me for hours afterward, even when I don’t manage to find anything.
I’m so, so reluctant to dig deeper, down to where the whole memories and undiluted hurt lie intertwined. At the same time, I know how much the happy moments of my childhood will matter to my daughters, to my parents, and probably to me. I haven’t found the necessary strength yet; I’m still clinging pretty tightly to the idea that my childhood was 100% bad. But I know there were times of laughter and imagination and closeness, and I owe it to many to rediscover those moments. I owe it to myself.
If at first you don’t succeed…
When people ask me about my childhood I tell them I have two.
It is deeper though, than owing to yourself or your children or your husband. The reality is that the good and bad are tangled (I know the impossibility of that juxtaposition is wrenching) so strive to dig up not bad nor good but TRUTH; I daresay you will find freedom. And though the freedom you find in truth has to be fought for with pain, it will be worth it.
love,
I encourage you to dig and write and dig and write some more. There are happy and good things down there, I’m sure of it, just judging by those 3 photos alone. We’re all here for you, even those of us who are new.
I haven’t read anything so honest and poignant for a long time. it makes me realize that I, too, have buried my childhood memories deep inside, the good, the bad, the funny, the sweet and that I need to dig into my own story. that I owe it to myself.
thank you so much for sharing this.
Jo – I’m not sure that the concept of truth alone has enough draw for me to face so much. I remember arguing about this with Dr. Batts in philosophy class once or twice. 🙂 However, I know you understand, and I think it would be wonderful to talk with you sometime about the pasts we don’t usually talk about.
Liz – Thanks for the encouragement. Funny how the idea of writing about difficult things makes them seem less difficult… Hopefully, I’ll have some happy memories to share soon!
Irene – You’re so welcome. Here’s to getting dirty… and digging up some treasures!
🙂 Bethany. I don’t think that truth meant this to much to me back when I started the journey either – only since I have found so much freedom and realized why Christ so passionately fights for truth – why its so important that His essence is true – that I’ve come to love it and fight for it so much.
I know this is older, but I just wanted to say that I identify so much with what you’ve written. I’m really thankful I kept journals throughout my life but there were also things that I couldn’t journal because they were so raw and deep and for which I had no words. I’ve learned that when I’m triggered now (although it’s very rare nowadays) that if I sit with it, sit with God and ask Him to reveal anything I need to know, He shines His light in the dark places and brings truth and healing. Psalm 51:6