Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: REMEMBER (02/03/22)
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TITLE: Slippery Silk Thread | Previous Challenge Entry
By Terry R A Eissfeldt
02/09/22 -
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ADD TO MY FAVORITES
At least for me.
I have very few raw, pungent, crystalline childhood memories.
That is the price of living a life in survival mode.
When flight, fight or freeze is the only dish on the menu there is no-one to gather and neatly tuck memories into colour coded itemized Dewey Decimal order.
They float and land at will. A shadowy slippery silk thread.
I don’t blame my parents for my abandonment or emotional trauma.
God knows they did the best they could with what they had at their disposal. Each carrying the inner scars of rejection, unworthiness, and loss. However it still remains a fact that I have very few childhood memories.
It’s kind of funny because I am the middle of five children and yet in most of my memories I am alone.
Three years ago my younger sister and I visited our dad in Costa Rica. At one point the subject shifted to all the places we lived.
(Moving across the country three times during crucial childhood development stages is also a contributor to living in survival mode)
As we talked of one particular home I mentioned that I loved having my own room in the basement. My younger sister looked at me and said, “I shared that room with you.”
I argued, “No, I remember I worked all summer fixing up the double brass bed for that room.”
She added, “We shared the bed too.”
My dad concurred. I was shocked. I literally had no recollection of sharing that room or that bed.
Since that time I’ve worked on my mental and emotional health. I’ve unearthed some fairly rotten stuff; buried deep in the dark recesses of my memory bank.
Only through the unrelentless love, grace, forgiveness, and mercy of a good, good Papa God have I been able to remember, face and deal with the hard facts of my childhood.
Recently I saw a post on Facebook showing a park bench and the question read:
If you could sit and talk with one person, dead or alive, who would it be?
It didn’t take me long to answer:
My eight-year-old-self.
She was fearless, optimistic and, even though by that time trauma was working, I believe if she had the tools I now possess, the rest of her childhood could be lived in the moment, in fullness.
I still have very few childhood memories, and in them I’m still alone, however I lean into them now and grasp that slippery silk thread.
I can see my eight-year-old self skipping to school on a spring morning; welcoming the new grass, dodging puddles. She is seeing the kaleidoscope of colours, smelling the freshness that comes after a prairie winter, and singing little made up songs of love and gratitude to Papa God.
If that’s the only thing I can remember from childhood it is enough.
Non-Fiction
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A standard of excellence I feel.
I hope this goes far.