Understanding what’s real can be challenging, especially as children, when we perceive things through our own lens. As we grow older, memories can resurface, providing clarity. These realizations can be both frightening and deeply unsettling, much like the stories we’re sharing today.
When I was about six, I would always walk my grandma up the stairs to her room during our visits. She loved holding my hand and would compliment my shirts, asking, “What’s this on your shirt called?” I’d proudly tell her, “That’s Winnie the Pooh,” or whatever character I was wearing, and she would share stories about them. Years later, I discovered that she was blind. She asked me to guide her up the stairs and inquired about my shirt because she could feel its pattern. This realization made me feel both sad and cherished; even though she couldn’t see, she always wanted to make me feel good about myself.
As a child, I often visited my grandparents’ house, where my brother lived. Occasionally, he would ask me to fetch the mail, claiming he had ordered a surprise for our grandpa. I later learned he was secretly using Papa’s credit card and using me to hide the bills.
In second grade, my older sister came into the bathroom while I was taking a bath to play with my toys. I later found out it was because our father was having a stroke, and she wanted to ensure I finished my bath before the paramedics arrived.
I experienced intermittent vision loss, which started so gradually that I didn’t realize it was happening; I would just see stars for a short while. Eventually, it got worse, and I realized I was going blind for those moments. It turned out I had a brain tumor that went undiagnosed for 16 years. I often wonder how different things might have been if I had recognized the signs instead of thinking they were normal.
As a child, I frequently visited a counselor, but I didn’t understand why until I got older. I later realized I was receiving counseling for PTSD from a severe car accident I was in when I was about four or five.
My dad would make me hide in the back seat of his car whenever he took my half-brother to meet his biological father at a sketchy gas station late at night. He would duck my head down to keep me from knowing what was happening, likely to protect me from the reality of my brother’s father’s troubled past.
At six, my mom asked me to stop calling her “mom,” so I began using her name. She didn’t react when I accidentally called her “mom,” but one day, she suddenly asked, “Who’s (Her Name)?” I was confused and replied, “You.” Then she started crying and pulled my hair. I later learned she had spent time in a mental hospital. Thankfully, she’s a better mom now.
My dad has seven siblings, and every Christmas, they would take turns making stockings for everyone. I enjoyed helping him with this, thinking it was a fun family tradition. However, I later discovered that the sibling who was struggling financially was assigned to do the stockings because it was the cheapest gift, allowing them to contribute without spending much. My dad never let us believe he was struggling, despite not living a flashy life.
My mom would tell me to play with my brother while she talked to the neighbor, who would come over and go straight to the bedroom, with my mom closing the door behind them. As a child, I didn’t think much of it until my dad came home early one day. I remember the chaos of screaming and the man jumping out of the window.
My parents told me I had a learning disorder, which they claimed was why I was failing in school, labeling me as “stupid.” It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized there was no learning disorder; my struggles stemmed from their poor parenting and my resulting low self-esteem.
In fifth grade, I had dinner at a friend’s house for the first time. At the table were my friend, her sister, her mom, and her dad. I was astonished to ask my friend, “Your mom eats dinner with you?” to which she replied, “Your mom DOESN’T??” This was my first clue that my mother had an eating disorder.
I was often pulled out of first and second grade to eat snacks and talk with the counselor. I thought I was just a lucky kid, but in reality, the school was checking in on me because my dad had passed away on Christmas when I was in kindergarten
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