Recently, my younger sibling (the middlest of us middle siblings) brought me the last of my things from my parents’ house. A lot of it was model train stuff that used to belong to my dad and that now belongs to me for reasons I don’t remember (I probably said I’d take it when he mentioned planning to throw it out sometime a decade or so ago), but this delivery also included a bunch of the seasonal decorations that had been given to me in my childhood and all of my “baby books” as my family called them (pretty much anything for kindergardeners and younger). I had a pretty impressive collection (all of us did), but I think I might have held onto mine the best. I was always the kid most interested in building my book collection. I reread things the most. I enjoyed having them since, with one exception, books were never forbidden to me in a household where every other piece of media I ever acquired had to be vetted by my parents to make sure it was appropriate for me. Which is funny, since books wound up being some of the most subversive stuff I ecountered as a kid in a lot of ways, some of which weren’t always terribly constructive or thought-provoking. I mean, I remember tearing pages out of my Dragon Ball manga because some of the art showed a woman’s breasts and I knew I’d lose all access to manga (which had somehow fallen under the blanket approval of books in my parents’ minds) just as well as I remember how Fullmetal Alchemist taught me to be more critical of authority. Or how Tuck Everlasting taught me that maybe endless anything wasn’t actually something I should desire (which laid the groundwork for me questioning the faith I was raised to accept without thought) and how Hatchett taught me how to start fires without matches.
As I’ve been going through all this stuff (now and after previous deliveries), I’ve been reexposed to a lot of things I’d forgotten. After all, there is only so much space for memories from your childhood and most of mine were taken up by the traumatic ones. Old macaroni (and bowtie, since I was not content to work with just one dried noodle) art, pictures of classes and clubs, the occasional sports trophy, collectors items I was given as “investments for my future” that meant nothing to me as a child and mean less to me now (such as a commemorative toy story watch whose band somehow disintegrated in the unopened package during the two and a half decades since I was given it), and so much more. This, more than anything else, has had me thinking about my past, my family, and my home life as a child. I mean, hell, I still do the same thing my parents set up for each of us as kids and keep a memory box full of assorted junk that means something to me and nothing to anyone else. Ticket stubs, stickers I lack the certainty of intention to place anywhere, free gifts from things I bought, interesting feathers (in a cool bottle I found), and little notes or pictures from people. The only thing that’s changed between now and then is that everything I’ve got is something I’ve acquired myself and decided to keep myself rather than something my parents told me to put in my memory box or told me wasn’t worth keeping (thereby forcing me to sneak it in later).
It is tempting to throw all of it out. I don’t particularly care to remember my childhood. There aren’t many happy memories from back then, even if I’m always smiling in pictures (something that feels especially bitter since I remember how my extended family used to always think I was such a happy kid that they’d frequently comment on it when I was actually masking my misery because that wasn’t an acceptable emotion to express around my parents, relatives, or authority figures of any kind). There’s a certain appeal in divesting myself of the remaining physical ties to my past, but the practicality that I’ve built for myself refuses to just toss it all aside. Some of it–such as the various bits of Catholic jewelry, the commemoriative items that survived, and various other bits and bobs–might be worth selling if I can ever be bothered to get it all sorted out. The books never did anything wrong, of course, and I’m sure there’s probably a lot of people who could use the kiddie books even if I never have kids, so those are worth holding onto until I’m past that point in my life (at which point I’d probably just donate them). The trains are just cool to have and I aspire to being one of those people with a complex train setup in their basement some day. Or to achieve one of my childhood dreams and have a train system running through my house that I could use to ferry objects around. That’d be a genuine delight.
It’s not all bad, digging through the past. Some pieces are bitter, some are bittersweet, and some turn my mind towards the future. It’s a difficult place to be in, rooting through the final things that tied me to a place and to people I might never see again. This was my decision, of course, and it’s not one I made easily (nor is it one that I’m always entirely certain of, since I still find myself wondering if I made the right choice any time family-oriented holidays pass me by without stopping), but I don’t regret it. I regret that I had to make a decision like this at all. I regret seeing my entire childhood played out in front of me as I unpack it from boxes and wondering if I’m better off forgetting the first eighteen years of my life entirely. I don’t regret creating space for myself to be well and removing the people from my life who wouldn’t give me that.
It’s a difficult array of emotions to handle all at once, this mixture of sadness, grief, longing, nostalgia, and hope. I can never fix the past, but I am working incredibly hard to create the kind of future I’d like for myself. I can never undo the memories or the ties that bind them to the scant few things from my past that I’d like to keep, but I can decide what place they have in my life now and in the future. Even if that place is just tucking them away in my storage unit because I don’t currently have the emotional capacity to deal with the brass creatures my grandmother demanded be given to me out of my grandfather’s collection because I used to love playing with them when I was a small child. Because damn, that one’s a doozy (especially considering I hadn’t spoken with my grandmother for over a year when she passed and she was still thinking of me, despite never returning my messages) even though I’d literally forgotten that my grandfather collected brass animals at all, much less that I’d once been fascinated with them. As I let that all unpack itself in the back of my mind while I was too busy, burned out, and stressed to actively deal with it, I remembered enjoying the cool weight of them, the way my hands smelled after I’d been playing with them for a while, and the way they’d make a satisfying, hefty clunk every time they came into contact with each other.
They aren’t happy memories, though. I remember too much around those moments, tucked away in whatever hiding place I’d found to avoid my brother’s attention or my parents’ demands, to consider them happy. At best, they are moments of relief. They are neutral, quiet moments where I could be myself without scrutiny, fear, or interference. I could simply exist. Which is an incredibly low bar to set for defining what some of the best moments of your childhood were, but that’s all I’ve really got these days. It helps put perspective on my current life, too, since while I may be struggling with how difficult this year is, at least I’ve had moments of genuine joy and happiness that will keep me from ever thinking that maybe I’d be better off forgetting that 2023 ever happened. Which, again, is a pretty low bar to set for a year in your life, but it feels pretty great to me, after everything else.