Surreality

I was looking through a drawer earlier today. What exactly I was looking for doesn't matter, however, as much as what I found: pictures. Photos taken when I was little, from a family vacation we took to the Alabama Gulf Coast. I recognized my own face in the images, and my sisters. Surprisingly, my cousins were there, too, along with my favorite aunt. The longer I stared at those pictures, however, the more unsettled I became.

You see, Dear Reader, I have no memory of that trip whatsoever.

The hard truth is that I remember very little of my childhood. Almost nothing, in fact. Well, nothing good. And the feeling I had today was not unique. I've had similar waves of confusion, concern, and other feelings I cannot quite name looking at pictures from my girlhood. Seeing my own cherub-like face smiling back at me - all crooked teeth, messy hair, and baby fat - from places I don't really recognize, in a year I can't recall.

One might think, "you were young; it's understandable you don't remember every detail." Nay, Dear Viewer. In these pictures I found today, I look to be eight or nine years old; plenty old enough to remember at least a few vague details. Other photos I've gone over with my family show me at ten, eleven, even well into my early teens... and yet they might as well be pictures of someone else. Another life, lived by a stranger on the other side of the galaxy.

What frustrates me most is when my sisters or parents talk fondly about events from my childhood. Things they remember as easily as if they'd happened yesterday, and are shocked that I have no recollection of. Sometimes it seems as if they don't believe I can't remember these moments. Then, they just look so sad. As if they pity me for having the memory of a goldfish. Sometimes I lie and play along, making up details to fill in the gaps. It's easier than admitting I have no idea what they're talking about.

It's true at times I can be quite forgetful. That being said, there are things I will never forget. I can't forget the fear lancing through me every time I was dragged screaming and crying out of a grocery store, headed to the car for a well-deserved spanking after I'd embarrassed my parents in public. An offense I rarely often dared to repeat. I can't forget the way my body trembled when Daddy took off his belt and snapped it in his hands, cracking that leather strap so loud it physically hurt my ears. Knowing it would crack across my pale, tender hide next.

I remember in painful clarity the humiliation I faced in sixth grade, when my math teacher failed me on the spot - in front of the entire class - just because I was too shy to walk up to his desk and collect my paper after he'd graded it. I'll probably carry the scars of wetting my pants during library time in second grade to my dying day. Along with my daddy's screams, the day I thought Mama had killed him with a broom. I will always remember hiding in the floor of my big sister's closet, sobbing with my hands pressed tight over my ears. Just praying for the yelling to finally stop.

But why can't I remember the happy times? Why is that little girl in those photos a complete stranger to me? What happened to make me forget? These questions I've had for - ironically - longer than I can remember. And at this point in my life, I fear I'll never know the answers.

I suppose, I shouldn't think about it too much. Even if I don't remember it, I must've had a happy childhood. The pictures are proof enough of that. Even if the impish little girl I see in them is a stranger to me. Let her live forever, captured in that precious, fleeting bubble of time. And hope that one day I'll be able to meet her, to share in her joy at last.