Lost Files

On childhood memories.

I was reading a book on parenting that asked me to reflect on my childhood and how my experiences then affect my responses now.

The examples cited made me realize that, in fact, many of my responses towards my son were based on things I experienced when I was a child like him.

Some I could trace. A few, really. But most of my childhood memories are blurry.

I know I used to remember.

The smell of the air. Pictures of places. The voices of people. Now, it’s all fuzzy.

And as I tried hard to remember things I thought might have happened but wasn't sure about, I found that one particular memory seemed to have taken the space of all the others.

I realized I remember this memory in more detail than any other. It was a painful memory. One I wished had never happened. But it did.

It felt as if my little self was doing all it could not to forget it and, at the same time, doing all it could to suppress the pain that came with it.

I barely remember the days I laughed as a child. Some memories I have of my childhood were told to me by my immediate younger brother. He seemed to remember so much, if not all, of our shared childhood. And in great detail.

I always blamed it on having a bad memory. “Oh, I don’t have a great memory.”

Today, for the first time, I had to admit it wasn’t that I didn’t have a great memory. It was that one file had corrupted the others that came before it.

Tonight, I remembered something. It was hazy, but it was worth remembering.

I saw myself sitting on the floor of our living room with my mum and brother, arranging cassettes. She would tell us the story behind why either of my parents bought a particular cassette, and she would play it. That was the day I found out she had bought a cassette of Psalty’s Kids Praise 5 as my first birthday gift. (I didn’t know Psalty was a songbook mascot until my early twenties.) My dad had addressed it and written beautiful things about my clocking one.

I can’t remember the year. Or even how old I was. Maybe it was day, or maybe it was night. But I’m glad I remembered.

When people talk about their childhood in detail, I envy them. I blame my brain for being forgetful.

My files got corrupted, but I don’t know how to recover them.

What does this mean for me as a parent who doesn't want to trauma-respond when handling situations with my children? I don’t know.

I’m trusting God to help me live beyond the hurt of my childhood and raise my kids from a place of wholeness.

My greatest prayer for them is that God protects them from everything that hurt me and stole my childhood.

Do you remember your childhood vividly? I’d love to know.

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Till I write to you again.

Keep growing.