The Childhood I Forgot…

The Childhood I Forgot (for a Reason)…

People talk about their childhoods like photo albums. Clear pages filled with birthdays, holidays, games and laughter.

Mine? It’s more like fog. Whole chunks are missing. It’s not that I don’t remember anything, it’s that what I do remember, I remember too well.

And most of the rest? Blocked. Stored somewhere deep in my nervous system. Filed under: Not Safe.

Every now and then, someone, an old neighbor, a childhood friend, will say something like, “Remember when we used to play at the gate until dark?” And I’ll smile and nod, but inside I’m blank. Until they say something else. A detail. A sound. A name. Then suddenly a memory comes back, not just the moment, but the feeling of it. And not always in a good way.

Sometimes what I forgot wasn’t harmless; it was necessary. It was survival. I think that’s what people don’t understand about blocked memories. It’s not weakness. It’s protection. A smart brain doing its best to keep a child whole in a world that didn’t feel safe.

For me, the clearest memories, the warmest, safest ones are of Granny Frass. Her house was my sanctuary. The smell of baking. The kettle was always on. Her sharp wit, her no-nonsense kindness. I didn’t have to guess who I was with. I was loved, simple as that. No games, no tension, no walking on eggshells.

With others, it was different. Franny especially. She’s been like that since birth. All sweetness and venom, depending on what she wanted. She wore her nice mask until Dad died. Then the real version showed up, and honestly, I’m still reeling.

It’s not that she changed, it’s that the mask slipped. Maybe Granny Frass always saw through it. And that’s why her love stood out so much. It was the only thing that felt real.

These days, I’ve stopped blaming myself for not remembering more. Maybe it’s not about remembering it all. Maybe it’s about remembering enough to heal, and honoring the ones who made us feel safe.

That’s the part I’ll keep.