For a long time, I have wanted to write down my memories of my childhood. I never have because I was afraid it would be disrespectful to those I would speak of. I was afraid it might strain, or end, relationships that are precious to me. I still have all these concerns, but I now have other concerns that are even more pressing.
What kind of relationships have I made, if telling the truth might end them? Maybe the truth will actually strengthen them. I am no longer afraid of the truth being disrespectful. My silent ‘respect’ has not helped anyone or made them feel any better. Maybe honesty is the most respectful thing that I can give.
For myself, I am writing this in an effort to understand and make sense of my own past. I have been afraid that if I face the past, the relationships made there would be destroyed, but they are being destroyed anyways. I feel them slipping away. Maybe facing it will allow us all to grow relationship on the stable ground of the truth, or acknowledge that they were already gone.
I realize that my memories are simply that, memories. You may have different memories of the exact same occasion. When I say that I’m telling the truth, I don’t mean that I have some sort of corner on the truth of these occasions. I mean that I am not lying about what I remember. I will not accept someone saying that my memories are not true or not important because for better or worse, they are my entire life. On the other hand, if you were there in these memories, I want to know how you remembered it. I truly want to understand, and I want more information than what I have here.
I hope that I have made it obvious that I am not writing or sharing any of this for revenge or out of bitterness. I am writing this in an effort to find the truth for all of us.
I share the stories in the order that they come back to my mind. I have not tried to organize them.