As I made the phone call to my childhood pastor, I had a series of questions handwritten in the notebook sitting beside me on the plastic kitchen table:
How did our family look to you? What roles did mom and dad play — especially in context of what you knew? To what extent (if any) did you suspect familial discord — why or why not? What were your perceptions of me growing up — of our family, of mom?
I had emailed pastor the previous week, asking if he’d be willing to have a conversation about my experiences in his congregation while we attended there. I told my therapist a few weeks prior that I was dealing with familial grief as I tried to make sense of my childhood narrative. I wondered if anyone outside my family noticed that we were troubled. I’ve long since acknowledged that my parents did what they could to take care of us, but at the same time there’s a vague sadness, sometimes frustration, with that past.
I’m writing because I’ve wondered about some of my experiences back then; since we moved, I kept up with few people from that time in my life. Growing up, my family was rather insular, so since undergrad, I’ve been trying to make sense of my childhood and early adolescence.
When we began the conversation, I acknowledged my fears about making that phone call — how I didn’t want him to think I was asking him to betray my parents’ confidence, if they’d shared anything with him. I just wondered about his impressions of our family. He answered some of my questions, and I discussed my life now — finishing undergrad and beginning grad school, how I promised myself I’d see a therapist when I started college (how it helped), and connecting with like-minded women who validated my story.
I felt surprisingly safe self-disclosing and took some notes. His recollections of me were relatively consistent with my own memories of being a “quiet, shy, self-conscious” girl (who I recognize was also pretty anxious). He said I was bright and intuitive even then, and that he was proud of me. I felt affirmed by this process of further developing my internal narrative.
After the phone call ended, I messaged a friend of mine who knew about the situation — the one who encouraged me, saying, “This is so brave and cool of you. I feel like I need to tell you that you astound me with your courage on a regular basis.” I remember sitting on my floor couch reading her message before making the call — I reminded myself that I was brave in my attempts to fill in some of my childhood recollections.
Memory isn’t static. It’s dynamic. Ultimately we are the ones shaping our own narratives as we ponder details consistent with our stories and neglect those that don’t seem to fit. I’m learning to honor the emotional truth of my story, especially how it still reverberates with me now.
I feel as if I’m making a timeline of Polaroids sent from the past, but I’m waiting for the blurriness of the images to become a scene that makes sense. I long for a coherent narrative and maybe in the process, I’m arranging these images into a recognizable whole. My friend says, “It’s like you’re uncovering your story.” Maybe I’m creating it, too.