Terrible Memories
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
Unannounced and unexpected, my youngest daughter, Viv, walks home from school and says, “Mom, can I tell you a terrible memory?” She carries her yellow backpack, and takes three steps to match one of mine. Yes, of course, I say, unsure of what’s coming next. “Remember the time I… ” and she tells me of a time when she made a childish choice, to which I responded with harsh words. Before she finishes speaking, heat has risen to my cheeks.
Days later, Viv again says, “Can I tell you another terrible memory?” She speaks as if asking if I want to know what she did in gym today, who she sat next to at lunch. But she, my child, is adopted. And despite her casual tone, I sense deep layers of sadness cling to so many of our early memories together. Because of this, I feel the weight of her question, the impact my own actions had, making these memories so terrible.
Yes, yes of course, I say, because I do want to hear. I want to know. I want her to share.
“Remember the time I… ” and she tells me when she was embarrassed at school and her memory of my reaction to the situation. My heart feels like lead. I say I’m sorry, and how I wish I would have responded differently.
“Do you have any more terrible memories?” I ask, hesitantly, but also willingly. If they don’t come out now, how long will she hold onto them? If they don’t come out when asked, what might she never feel safe, or brave enough to say? She nods, says yes, then tells me three. With each: her action and my reaction, two factors in these equations of her mind.
How far of a jump is it from your child’s terrible memory to you being a terrible mom?
***
Two of my own terrible memories:
I’m six and lay naked in between crisp white sheets on our living room couch. Pustules erupt in red oozing craters all over my body, from scalp to trunk to feet. My mom, who has given me medicine and carefully dotted me with calamine lotion, who will put the back of her hand on my forehead at least twenty more times before the sun sets, says, almost laughing, “You’re like a little monster.” And because I feel like a monster, my heart folds up inside of itself.
I’m fourteen, though the actual age on this one is fuzzy. I have either gotten in trouble or have a look in my eye that says I’m planning on it. In frustration, Mom says, “Why can’t you be more like—” then says the name of one of my friends. I love this friend dearly, but I could never ever be her. This friend walks and talks as if she’d memorized—no, as if she’d become both an etiquette book and a Bible.
***
What do we do with the hurts of our past?
Does anyone leave their children unscathed?
***
My daughter’s terrible memories take a break for a few months. Then one night at dinner, my third child squirms in his chair, knees up, then down, then up again. His older brother begins a lament of how unfair it is that he used to get in trouble for doing the exact same thing. “You told me you were going to duct tape me to the chair if I didn’t stop wiggling!” he says with wide eyes and an open mouth, indignant. Then he huffs out a laugh, which makes the rest of us laugh, too.
I’ve heard all this before, I know, I know. I admit, yes, I am more lenient, more tolerant (more relaxed?) with my younger kids’ behaviors than I was with my first two.
Then my oldest, who is sixteen, shoots both her arms straight in the air. She starts laughing so hard we can hardly understand her. “You once told me,” her mouth is open, I can’t see her eyes, “I’d have to stand in the corner with my hands in the air at dinner,” she scrunches up her face, then opens her mouth wide, as if to reset, “because you didn’t like how I slouched over my plate!” She flops her arms down dramatically and lays half her body on the table.
“Did I really do that?” I ask, smiling, chuckling.
“No, but you threatened it,” she wipes away tears from her face. I close my eyes and shake my head. Me and my threats. Me and my overwhelm. Me and my inexperience, of being a parent, of not knowing any better.
***
Another terrible memory:
My mom is sick with cancer. We (my brother, sister, and I) are not told what kind of cancer it is, and we don’t even know to ask. She starts chemo, doesn’t lose her hair, and she’s often in the living room asleep on the couch.
I’d spent weeks crying alone in my bedroom, scared that if I even thought about the possibility of her death, if I even breathed a hint of this fear, I would be committing some breach of contract with God. A punishable lack of faith.
Did I believe she could be healed? Of course. But with each meal untasted, each day when her voice shrunk smaller, the reality in front of me made me question—would she?
And so one day I sit down on the couch next to my mom and start crying. She asks me why, but I cannot speak through my tears.
“Are you afraid I’m going to die?” she whispers, her voice forever changed from her treatment. A wave of relief washes over me—she sees me—and I nod.
What I wanted, what I expected, what I so desperately needed in the moment was to be connected to her within this unchangeable, terrible circumstance. Would she say Me, too or I know this is hard or I wish it wasn’t like this? Anything, anything would have helped. But most parents did not talk to their kids like this back then.
“No one’s promised tomorrow,” she says. A distant, pragmatic truth. And there I’m left, right next to her side, sinking to the floor, still crying. She puts her hand on my head, but I feel untethered and alone, free-falling into an abyss.
***
What I wish I could have done differently as a mom: You want that list? What I wish I’d known? What I wish I understood? Which books I wish I’d read sooner?
Would you like to know what I wish I’d healed from, what I wish I’d addressed and already dealt with?
And yet, here I am. With air full in my lungs. My skin is warm.
What I wish for myself as a young girl—an acknowledgement, a connection, a restoration—this, if nothing else, is what I can offer my children.
***
Wanting to join in with her older siblings laughing around the table, Viv starts again with one of her terrible memories. From shortly after her adoption, “Remember the time I was supposed to be sleeping but instead I was—” I raise my hands to my face and press my fingers to my eyes. While I don’t remember exactly what she’s talking about, I sense what she will say next will bring me to tears. Which it does.
How do I reconcile that I am not that same mom, yet that mom is also me?
The kids are all laughing, so despite my tears I open my eyes and turn to my youngest daughter, prepared to say I’m sorry and I wish I didn’t do that and You are a good girl. I am the adult, the one responsible for my words and choices. I bear the burden of our repair. When I turn to her, this sweet child laughs with her mouth wide open, shaking and silent, with—what I don’t expect—tears streaming down her cheeks.
Beauty and pain, why do they share such small spaces?
My husband picks her up, hugs her tight. Then, in turn, I fold her little body into my arms. When I hold her, I say I’m sorry and I’m glad you told me and acknowledge That is a hard memory.
***
Days later, we drive by Viv’s old preschool and she says, “Remember our Dora map?” Yes, I remember. Each day, we went through Red Fox Forest, over the big hill, and down the busy road to get to preschool.
“You were the cutest,” I say, thinking of how small she was, and all the time we spent together in those first overwhelming years. Despite the hard, we shared sweet moments, too.
I’m not convinced terrible memories ever disappear. But I can see how time, intention, communication, and humility can turn them into something of a scar, present but no longer painful if we run our finger over them.
“I like when we talk about good memories,” she says, smiling. Looking back at her, I nod and smile. I say, Me too.
Maybe the truest, most complete healing comes when we talk openly about both, the terrible and the good.
P.S. If you loved this essay, you'll love our podcast, What I Wish I Had Known with Shauna Niequist.
Sonya Spillmann lives in the DC area with her husband and four kids. She is a staff writer for Coffee + Crumbs and also writes on her blog. You can sign up for her newsletter and listen to her and Adrienne on the Exhale podcast every month.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.