Picture me in bed scrolling through Pinterest. Feel the bittersweet nostalgia I experience every time I come across a picture of Lip Smackers, Juicy Couture tracksuits, Club Libby Lu or any other token of the early 2000s. Cry with me as I long for the “good old days” when my only concern was whether or not I’d get home in time for the next Hannah Montana episode. You’re probably anticipating that I’m going to rave about how much easier my childhood was, right? What if I told you that my childhood was the most traumatic period of my life so far?
You see, I have a strange relationship with my own childhood. I miss the innocence of being five years old, but I also remember that my brother, Thomas, died that year. I long for the ease of first grade but realize that I lost my grandma around that time. Trauma has a funny way of clouding your memories with nostalgia. I consciously know that many tragic events took place during my childhood and early teenage years, yet all I remember is the sweetness of it all.
Don’t get me wrong, my childhood trauma still impacts me to this day. In fact, I can’t get through a conversation about my brother without shedding at least one tear. My heart fell into my stomach as I wrote about my grandma in the last paragraph. However, the funny thing is that I have little to no recollection of these events. I know my brother died, I read his obituary every now and then. I barely remember the hospital visits, though. I miss my grandma every day but, for the life of me, can’t remember her being here.
Do you want to know what I do remember about my childhood? I remember my close friends, vacations to Truckee and amazing music. I recall the way I expressed myself so freely and unapologetically, not caring what anyone else thought about my over-the-top fashion choices. Every time I long to go back in time, I remind myself that life was far worse than it is now.
I think that the reason I want to go back in time is that I want to rewrite my story. I want to be reborn and live a life where Thomas overcomes his heart condition, Grandma Joyce lives long enough to spend time with all of her grandchildren, and Mommy never experiences her aneurysm. I want to enjoy the pure sweetness of my childhood free of pain and tragedy. Maybe there is some alternate reality where all of that is true but, for now, I must deal with the fact that it isn’t.