Memories, Like the Corner of My Mind

Memories, Like the Corner of My Mind
By Raven Usher

Growing up with any form of gender identity disorder, whether it is called gender dysphoria, transgenderism, or what have you, is problematic at its best. At its worst, it can be life threatening. In its commonality, it is most certainly traumatic.
There has been an uncommon level of discussion in my little corner of the world about childhoods as of late. My friends, family and even casual acquaintances have been talking about “when we were kids.” In the interest of the conversation, I try to keep up. But they have me at a disadvantage. I do not remember my childhood.

Oh, I know plenty of stories. I remember the ones my parents have told me time and time again and I can easily retell them. But when I do, I’m just recounting the stories of other people’s memories. Not my own. My own memory of my childhood is akin to a shattered mirror after the shards have been haphazardly swept up leaving only fragments hiding in the tufts of a shag carpet waiting to stab me in the foot when I step on them. I collect the pieces that I find, but there is never enough to recreate even a single complete reflection.

Sometimes it does not matter to me that my memory fails concerning things as recently as high school. Sometimes it bothers me a lot. It bothers me when i find evidence of my past of which I have no recollection; The pictures of a camping trip to Queen’s River near Atlanta, ID in the early 70‘s. The photo of the little dark haired boy who my mother swears was my best friend in the world. Little keepsakes that I have owned for decades, but do not know where or how I acquired them.

During my last visit to my parents’ house, my 6 year old was showing off her new reading skills. She prompted my mother to tell a story I had not heard before. It was about my grandmother complaining that my brother and I were reading comic books instead of real books and my mother defending her children saying, “Hey, they’re reading and they’ll read more if it’s something they like.” I cannot remember ever reading even a single comic book as a child. By the time I got home, that missing memory had eaten at me to the point that I was pressed with the need to find a quiet corner of my house and cry.

The forgotten references to childhood has prompted a question in me. I know that if a certain event in a person’s life is too traumatic for that person to deal with, the memory can be repressed by the subconscious in the best interests of the person’s mental well being. My question is: Is there a way to tell the difference between a repressed memory and something that has just been forgotten?

I asked my question to a friend who is, by trade, a therapist. Her reaction was to immediately warn me of the dangers of trying to resurrect repressed memories. She was so adamant about her warnings that I had to give her my solemn word that I was not interested in trying to uncover any such repressed memories. Which is indeed the truth. I have no inclination to relive any trauma that I have been fortunate enough to have had wiped from my head.

I would, however, like to know if I have repressed the majority of my childhood or if my memory just plain sucks! If it has been repressed, I must have been a really messed up kid. If I have just forgotten, my memory should not be admissible as evidence in a court of law.
Anyway, I would like to know if there is a way to tell the difference. If there is a way and you know what it is, my dear reader... drop me a line via Diversity. I really want to know.
Blessed Be.