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Broken Childhood
I'm not envious by nature. That's not who I am. But sometimes when I get so absorbed into the obscurity of my mind , I can't help but envy a certain category of people. That is, those who never experienced childhood trauma. I wouldn't care if they went through traumatic experiences as adults, for I know that those experiences wouldn't be as psychologically destructive as when they were children.
But God, how I'm I jealous, sometimes, of the people who had a happy, cheerful childhood! The children that lived, instead of survived. The children that felt safe instead of being constantly on guard. The children whose brains developed in a healthy environment, instead of being corrupted and degraded by their homemade toxicity. The children that viewed home as their serene place, instead of their prison, their horror, their worst enemy.
Because, I, my childhood wasn't happy. It was ruined by the terror of my abusive father.
I remember despising even the mere fact of kids holding hands with their fathers. That portrait was so unfamiliar for me, that I despised it. I was so familiar with the abnormal, that I thought the normal was abnormal. Now I ask myself: If the circumstances were different, how would I be? If I had, for instance, a loving, sweet father, how would the perception of myself, and the world be?
I would certainly not be lost in the imaginary that I created to escape my ugly reality. I wouldn't have struggled with depression and social anxiety. The fear of people, and men mostly wouldn't exist in me. The commitment and trust issues wouldn't be as severe as they are today too. I wouldn't overthink out of fear, during all my childhood, and hence won't struggle with my decision making and my doubts that overwhelm me as an adult. I would be more naive ( though not too naive), and I would preserve a part of my innocence much longer. For I lost my innocence and naivety too early. I wish things were different, only to rejoice my innocence fully.
And when my bad memories come to visit me again- and they always do- I feel a deep sadness within me. As if, at moments like these, I'm mourning the kid in me that died too early. I even cry like a baby. My easy weeps are the same as when I was a child ( Maybe parts of me still want to be a kid, and they never grew out of it). But then, I can't help but wonder how it feels to be an adult of happy childhood. I fancy how beautiful, marvelous, enchanting it must be to have happy memories from childhood. They're like medicine to the mind and soul. They're a light that guides the infant brain to the healthy path for development. So that that infant grows to become a healthy adult. How beautiful it is to grow with fully developed cognitive and psychological abilities. I fancy and I fancy, and I smile in the midst of my sobs...
Dostoevsky in his book, The Brothers Karamazov said the following: " There is nothing nobler, stronger, healthier, and more helpful in life than a good remembrance, particularly a remembrance from our childhood, when we still lived in our parents’ house. You often hear people speak about upbringing and education, but I feel that a beautiful, holy memory preserved from early childhood can be the most important single thing in our development. And if a person succeeds, in the course of his life, in collecting many such memories, he will be saved for the rest of his life. And even if we have only one such memory, it is possible that it will be enough to save us someday."
I wish I had endless happy childhood memories, I wish I had as many stories to tell about my happy childhood adventures, the laughters, the exciting moments. Alas, I can't truly remember any particular moment where I was truly happy. I only remember the traumatic ones. They're the ones that cross my mind directly, within seconds, without any mental effort to remember them. I wish it was the same thing with the happy memories.But unfortunately I can't go back in time or rewrite my story. That's how God wanted it to be. That was my destiny.
© Caillou
But God, how I'm I jealous, sometimes, of the people who had a happy, cheerful childhood! The children that lived, instead of survived. The children that felt safe instead of being constantly on guard. The children whose brains developed in a healthy environment, instead of being corrupted and degraded by their homemade toxicity. The children that viewed home as their serene place, instead of their prison, their horror, their worst enemy.
Because, I, my childhood wasn't happy. It was ruined by the terror of my abusive father.
I remember despising even the mere fact of kids holding hands with their fathers. That portrait was so unfamiliar for me, that I despised it. I was so familiar with the abnormal, that I thought the normal was abnormal. Now I ask myself: If the circumstances were different, how would I be? If I had, for instance, a loving, sweet father, how would the perception of myself, and the world be?
I would certainly not be lost in the imaginary that I created to escape my ugly reality. I wouldn't have struggled with depression and social anxiety. The fear of people, and men mostly wouldn't exist in me. The commitment and trust issues wouldn't be as severe as they are today too. I wouldn't overthink out of fear, during all my childhood, and hence won't struggle with my decision making and my doubts that overwhelm me as an adult. I would be more naive ( though not too naive), and I would preserve a part of my innocence much longer. For I lost my innocence and naivety too early. I wish things were different, only to rejoice my innocence fully.
And when my bad memories come to visit me again- and they always do- I feel a deep sadness within me. As if, at moments like these, I'm mourning the kid in me that died too early. I even cry like a baby. My easy weeps are the same as when I was a child ( Maybe parts of me still want to be a kid, and they never grew out of it). But then, I can't help but wonder how it feels to be an adult of happy childhood. I fancy how beautiful, marvelous, enchanting it must be to have happy memories from childhood. They're like medicine to the mind and soul. They're a light that guides the infant brain to the healthy path for development. So that that infant grows to become a healthy adult. How beautiful it is to grow with fully developed cognitive and psychological abilities. I fancy and I fancy, and I smile in the midst of my sobs...
Dostoevsky in his book, The Brothers Karamazov said the following: " There is nothing nobler, stronger, healthier, and more helpful in life than a good remembrance, particularly a remembrance from our childhood, when we still lived in our parents’ house. You often hear people speak about upbringing and education, but I feel that a beautiful, holy memory preserved from early childhood can be the most important single thing in our development. And if a person succeeds, in the course of his life, in collecting many such memories, he will be saved for the rest of his life. And even if we have only one such memory, it is possible that it will be enough to save us someday."
I wish I had endless happy childhood memories, I wish I had as many stories to tell about my happy childhood adventures, the laughters, the exciting moments. Alas, I can't truly remember any particular moment where I was truly happy. I only remember the traumatic ones. They're the ones that cross my mind directly, within seconds, without any mental effort to remember them. I wish it was the same thing with the happy memories.But unfortunately I can't go back in time or rewrite my story. That's how God wanted it to be. That was my destiny.
© Caillou
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