waking up with amnesia

If I told you everything I survived as a child, your eyes might well up before I even finished the first story. But when I talk about having a traumatizing childhood, I feel like a fraud. I think of my childhood as a scary memory, but when I try to track down specific memories that made it this way, I can’t think of anything. Or when I do think of things, I think they aren’t traumatic enough. I feel as though I’m being dramatic, or faking it, as if my struggle with panic attacks, intrusive thoughts, and intense trauma responses aren’t evident enough.

I’m not sure if it’s amnesia, or the habit I’ve created of rewriting my own memories- maybe both. Maybe it’s because my mind knows the truth, but something deeper still doesn’t believe me. Maybe it’s because naming the trauma feels like I’m erasing the good memories. But my body tenses up at the thought of my childhood- yet the memories that surface are the enjoyable ones.

I think about all the times my older sister and I would rush to put on our swimsuits the moment it started raining. We’d run down the street, barefoot, screaming and laughing, waiting for cars to splash us. I’m sure all the neighbors could hear our giggles. As they splashed us, we’d scream, then dance around in the puddles, giggling with pure excitement. I remember one man who found the biggest puddle just to make sure we got soaked, then circled back to do it again. I have a lot of fun childhood memories with my sister, but these ones were truly my favorite. We really knew how to make the most fun out of rainy days.

Another favorite memory is when my grandpa picked me up from school for a dentist appointment. I loved being pulled out in the middle of the day. There was something so thrilling about being the mystery. No one knew where I was going and I wasn’t about to tell them. They probably didn’t care that much, but I remember watching kids leave and wondering where they were going- so I loved getting to be the one who temporarily disappeared.

After my dentist appointment, my grandpa looked at me and said “Alright, I can either take you back to school, or we can go to your favorite restaurant and skip school for the rest of the day”. I think you know what I picked.

At the time, my favorite spot was a place called The Train. It was an old railway car that was turned into an old fashioned diner and sat on an abandoned track right across from my school. It felt so fun to sit there, eating my favorite food, looking out the window at my school, knowing all my classmates were stuck inside. After we ate, we stuck our tongues out towards the school, then he took me to his house, and we danced to 70s music. My favorite song to dance to was “September” by Earth, Wind, & Fire.

When I became an adult, I started to realize how abnormal my childhood really was. Sometimes in conversation, a memory would surface - something I thought was funny. I’d tell the story, laughing, expecting my friends to laugh with me. But when I’d look up, they’d be staring at me, wide eyed and horrified. Then I’d hear, “Are… are you okay?” or “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I don’t know why, but it used to make me angry… I didn’t understand why they couldn’t just laugh with me. I understand now.

When I started going to therapy and began healing, it felt like the floodgates opened. Suddenly, all these repressed memories came rushing back - memories I didn’t even know I had buried. Apparently that’s a common experience, but no one told me. The memories would come out of nowhere, and I’d be horrified, unsure if they were real or not. I’d call my sister in a panic, trying to validate the memory, hoping she remembered it too.

I guess dissociative amnesia was my body’s way of protecting me when I was younger. I wasn’t ready to hold those memories back then, but now I have to tools to cope, and move through it. So maybe it did protect me in the way I needed, at the time.

Right now, I think the best I can do is trust that if and when these memories need to resurface, they will. And when they do, I will be okay. I will move through them with softness and care. I trust that the memories that resurface want to be witnessed - to free me, not haunt me.

If you’ve ever felt ambushed by your memories, I’d love to hear how you navigated it. But for now, that’s all I have. If there’s any typos, oh well, I’m human. :)