I love lilacs. They remind me of my childhood. In the space between the home where I grew up and my grandma’s house next door, there was a drainage ditch (which we thought was a river) with two lilac bushes nestled beside it. In between those two bushes, there was a space just small enough that a little girl could sit there with her book and listen to the water trickle by and smell the sweetness of the flowers and disappear into a fictional world.
When we bought our home, I was delighted to find a beautiful, mature lilac bush in the front corner of the yard. I don’t hide under the flowers with my book anymore, but I like to cut them in spring and bring them inside… to my living room or my office or my bedroom. The smell works like a time machine.
Sometimes I think about that little girl. Actually, I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. My therapist likes to talk about her. So does my mom. And my sisters. My stepdad brought her up recently.
The thing is… I don’t have a lot of memories of her. Is that weird? I’ve always had a terrible memory. My sisters tell me stories that don’t even ring a bell, insisting I was there. My friends ask me about middle school dances and high school assignments and field trips that everyone else remembers. I know I was there, but I don’t really recall. That’s not to say I don’t have ANY memories. I do. I even have a few pretty vivid ones. But not a lot. Not as many as I probably should.
Is that a personality trait? Is it biological? Is it some sort of psychological defense mechanism?
In a way, I think it’s a blessing. I rarely hold a grudge, because half the time I can’t even remember what the argument was about. I’m quick to forgive because I probably won’t remember what I was mad about in the first place.
A few decades ago, my (then) new roommate and I were just getting to know each other. We had exchanged a few stories about our childhoods. Her biological father died when she was a baby. And I said something along the lines of, “I didn’t really have anything BAD happen in my childhood.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?” She was looking at me like I was insane. But I was sincere. And I was confused.
“But… all the divorces?” She asked.
“Yeah, but that’s just what it was. It wasn’t traumatic.”
“And you practically raised your sisters, right?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And didn’t you say you were kidnapped twice?”
“Only by my parents. That doesn’t really count.”
“What about the custody battles? And when your dad cut you off? And the times when your mom had you lie for her? And the cheating and the money stuff and… Jesus, Ame! No trauma? You can’t really believe that.”
But I honestly did. In a way, I still do. Thank God for that friend… she’s been calling me out on my delusions for more than twenty years.
And maybe all of that suppressed family drama (I still resist dubbing it ‘trauma’) is WHY I loved to curl up and escape into somebody else’s world. I had so many hiding places. I made a bed in the back of my closet where I could hide and read. There was a fort in the woods near the house where I would curl up with a paperback. There was a corner of the basement with a beanbag chair next to the toy box.
Here’s one of those actual vivid memories. I must’ve been about 11 or 12 years old. In our house, we ALL cleaned up after dinner. And sometimes, I would escape to the bathroom. After all, you couldn’t get in trouble for having to poop, right?
Wrong. I must’ve really been engrossed one night. I took too long in the bathroom. My parents called me twice and both times, I snarkily replied, “I’m in the BATHROOM! Can’t a person POOP IN PEACE?” And then I kept reading my book on the toilet.
Eventually my mom came up and shouted through the locked door. “There is NO way you’re still using the bathroom. You’ve got a book in there.”
“I do NOT, Mom. God. You’re such a pain.”
And she stood outside the door, waiting for me to emerge so she could search the bathroom for my book and make a liar out of me.
Another time, she had found my book under the bathroom sink, so I knew that wasn’t a safe place to stash my contraband novel. What she didn’t know is that I had gotten a lot more creative (and a little bit taller) since the last search mission.
We had a cabinet over the back of the toilet. It held towels and toilet paper and was pretty substantial. The top of it didn’t quite reach the ceiling. There was a crevice at the top, between the cabinet itself and the decorative piece at the front. It was just big enough to stash a book, and just small enough to be nearly invisible.
I finally emerged from the bathroom, and my book stayed safely in that crevice while my mother tore apart the contents of the cabinet. She pulled out every towel and every roll of toilet paper. She pulled out every styling tool and bottle of cleaner under the sink. And she never did find that book.
Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. And if it’s any consolation, I’m now parenting my own teens and every snarky remark makes me more grateful for your patience.
And when I think about that little girl… and that preteen one… and the older, teenage version, I have mostly fond memories. I love the idea that every version of me is still THERE, within me. I think I got that idea from Ann Lamont, somewhere along the line, and I think it’s beautiful.
My love of reading has been inside me forever. My tendency for caretaking has never left me. My desire for peace, for connection, for spirituality have been threads that run through my six year-old self, my 12 year-old self, my 26 year-old self, and this current, 42 year-old version of me.
And those lilacs? They speak to each one.