Childhood Memories

I have enjoyed reading the articles people have posted on Gather about their childhood memories.....even though they do tend to make me jealous.  I have so few memories of being a child. And even those are suspect - mostly, they are not actual memories, but rather are memories of the stories of my family's memories - or they are based on pictures, or on my knowledge of facts. 

I know our house burned down when I was - um... we lived in Angus then ....Our Lady of Grace school.... grade 3 or 4 maybe? So I would have been about 9 or 10. It was shortly after a birthday - so I think that I was 10. Or maybe 11. Oh hell, let's go with 10.

I don't really remember the events themselves.

Honestly, my memories of even just a few years ago are vague; my kids remember a lot more about their childhood than I do. I don't remember the names of most of the teachers I ever had - and I don't do much better remembering the names of my kids' teachers, either.

Perhaps, you might be thinking, I have some sort of 'problem' that contributes to my failure to remember. Honestly, I don't; I am reasonably intelligent, with no medical reasons for a lousy memory whatsoever.

But.

I don't remember.

I know why I don't remember. I didn't, for a very long time. I was in my early 30s when I finally had a breakthrough. Okay, a breakdown, really. Until then, not only did I not remember, I did not know that I did not remember. 

I was working in a children's mental health centre then. I had some very good friends. I was doing the single parenting thing - but not really; we lived with my Mom, and she helped a lot. Anyway, at the centre, we had a new admission; a 10 or 11 yo boy (I don't remember) with behaviour problems.

And I - a very good and very competent child & youth worker - detested him. Even before he actually was admitted, I felt very strong and very negative emotions about that poor child. He arrived, and I worked with him, and I hope, treated him the same as all the others. I don't think he ever knew that for reason's that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, I felt such strong emotions about him. I sincerely hope he did not pick on them. Because it really did have nothing to do with him. It was his name.

Eventually, I figured it out. It was his name.

Why did that name fill me with horror - fear - disgust - dread - to the point of illness?

It took some time before it all came flooding back.

A group of neighbourhood kids. CFB Borden. Hide and seek. A much older boy who 'shared his hiding place with me'. A camper trailer. How old was I? It was after the fire. Not long after. I was still 10. I think.

Anyway - that boy's name was the same.

The memories came crashing back.

Memories are not always good to have.

I had learned to cope with certain things by blocking them.

I had learned to cope with life by disconnecting. I was watching my life, not living it.

I got help. Counseling. Group. It helped a lot. And I got a lot better at living my life, not watching it. A lot better.

Not everything came back. Some did - and when I work at it, I can recover more - happy stuff even. But it is still work.

And I still have a tendency to forget as I go.

Part of my need to write, I think, and especially, to journal, goes back to my failure to remember.

When I write, I am re/membering my past - and storing my present.

In my creative writing course last summer, I had to write a story based on a childhood memory. I knew I had been burned as a child. I called my mom and harassed her with questions about what happened. She kept saying she couldn't remember the details! But I used what she did tell me, and made up what was missing. The first version - in my own voice - sucked. The second, told in the third person, and from my mom's point of view, was much better. She heard me read it at last year's Leacock Festival and her response was that it was very accurate - except, she said, she never yelled at my father LOL  Of course she didn't!

I have no idea how accurate it is, really.

But I do know that rather than just being jealous of those of you who are able to write articles about their childhood memories, I think that I shall perhaps make some effort to do the work and come up with a few more of my own.