I don’t remember that much about my childhood, but there are two memories that stand out for me as my earliest memories, unsurprisingly, they both involve my parents.
The one involves me when I was about 7 years old sitting on my father’s lap at the dining room table. He was having a conversation with me about being “too independent”…and I remember him telling me “that no person is an island” with tears in his eyes. I remember feeling confused because what he was telling me didn’t fit into how the world worked. In my world as I saw it, it was everyone for themselves, trying to make sure they didn’t get consumed. Perhaps, that is where I went wrong…it was not everyone else that wanted anything different, it was only me who was fighting for survival.
The other memory which is my earliest one…was one that I wrote about in the post about my abuse…where my mother chased me into the bathroom. I remember that I was in my room with my mother and my sister and my mom found one of her “special” pens (I don’t know what was special about it and) and that it triggered a frightening rage.
These memories sadden me because they are pointers on a map that tell me: Things were not normal or healthy…