Where has all the good gone?

I recently read about childhood memories and how we might not remember the good as well, not because they don’t exist but because the bad ones are easier to access.

Think of learning a new route home: the more you do it, the less you need directions. It becomes muscle memory. You start heading in familiar directions even if it’s not where you meant to go. You know exactly how long it should take without checking. And this is how neurons of the brain work.

Recalling moments of distress in an instant. Your ability to remember the times you felt hurt isn’t because you always were, but because your mind established quicker paths to those flashbacks as a means of protection. To keep you from the risk of experiencing that same pain again. In theory, it’s trying to keep you safe because if you can remember it quick, then you can avoid it. It’s by design.

It makes me a little sad to realize that I struggle to think of the good times from childhood. The same heartbreaking stories have played in my mind for so long that it’s hard to see beyond the fog. I couldn’t have always been an undercover sad girl. Where are the moments that I was happy to be alive and carefree like every kid should be able to be? Was there ever a time that family actually felt like family? Did we do more than argue and fight?

I’m certain there are moments I wished lasted forever. Like the summers we spent living like fish in the pool. Or when a quick walk to the cornerstone solved everything. Oh and there were field trips with my mom as the chaperone. I can see them all faintly in my mind but what is gnawing at me is the feeling. I can’t connect to those memories as well.  I don’t remember laughing until my stomach hurt with friends who felt like they’d be life long. I don’t feel a sense of home when I picture my childhood bedroom. Maybe because we moved so often it never felt permanent, like something that was mine. Maybe I always longed for something more, even as a kid — there was something missing.

I think at the root, I don’t know if I ever felt like I belonged. I was the youngest and my parents worked a lot and my brother had more friends to hang out with. I can recall trying to cling to anyone even for a moment. With a mother who worked nights, a father who was an alcoholic, and a brother who was busy also trying to be a kid, I didn’t know where I fit in. It seemed like everyone had something else going on and would come together just briefly right before the street lights came on to eat. But I don’t remember dinner table conversations outside of being told to stop putting my elbows on the table. Did we ask each other how we were doing? How our days were? I wonder if we all share the same clouded memories of that time…?

As I’m trying to recall the good. I can picture one Christmas morning. I’m pretty sure it was one of the last that Santa got credit for giving us gifts (spoiler alert, it wasn’t him). My brother and I really wanted bikes. Our neighborhood always had phases where the kids would rally around the same toys or games. This time it was skateboards, scooters and bikes. We woke up early and begged to open presents. Of course, our parents took their time and when they finally came downstairs we ripped through everything in sight. You can imagine that bicycles were not magically wrapped (that probably would have sold me on Santa forever). Nonetheless, we were grateful for what we got and went outside to exchange oohs and ahhs with our friends. If I remember correctly we were called inside and told that Santa “forgot” to bring two of our gifts inside. And yes, it was what we hoped for, one for each of us rolling through the back patio door. Apparently, Santa left them outside for us. How lazy! (Kidding). We were ecstatic. It definitely went down as a great Christmas, and those were a dime a dozen.

That had to have been 25 years ago, give or take.  I wish I could go back and savor it a littler longer. Take note of the kind of bike it was and how long it took to take the training wheels off. What color was it? You can never learn how to ride a bike for the first time again. How wild is it that many firsts get lost in the speed of life without knowing that sensation lives there in the memories… if you’re lucky.

Time really flies and blends together and before you know it you’re grasping for the things that connect you to the little you.

I know there is so much more that is lost in the creases of my mind. I’m determined to shorten the time it takes to reach for them because even though life may have been full of survival, it has also been one of great celebrations.

I know it. There’s more to me than my pain.

I invite you to do the same. What is one of your most cherished childhood memories? Will you share it with me? Comment below!

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