The tenor of our holiday family gatherings shifted around the time of my parents’ separation in sixth grade. The relative safety I felt evaporated. I remember folding myself up like a paper doll. I remember feeling numb. I remember longing for things to be different. I remember writing frequently in my diary.
I wish I had those diaries now. I wish I could see my handwriting. I wish I could read my words on the page. I wish I could connect more deeply to my younger self.
Memory is elusive at best. We remember what is repeated. This could be a story we are told over and over or a memory that flashes in our mind on a loop. When I try to recall that time in my life, I often fail to locate any memories. Nothing. No images. No sensations. No sounds. No smells. I wait, hoping a memory will emerge, a thread that will connect me to that part of my past. I am desperate to know my younger self. Perhaps she feels my desperation and stays hidden, protected, saf…