A Lost Boy

When people asked what my childhood was like, the answer always came easy.
“I don’t remember.”
I found it odd they even asked. I am sure such questions were a normal part of the conversations most people had while getting to know one another. For me, the momentary reflection on my past and my inability to provide an honest answer would lead me to walk away with an unusually heavy burden. It was clear to me I needed to avoid the topic altogether. Thus, I went to great lengths to remain secretive about my past, preferring to go unnoticed. My early years were a forbidden zone—all but forgotten. Yet the shadow of something dark, some secret I did not want to rediscover, remained.
On occasion, I would sense a clear yet subtle undertone in a conversation—an indefinable something provoking an unspoken and intangible connection. In those moments, I sensed a mutual understanding and the need to bypass small talk in an attempt to piece together the fractured parts of something shattered. Eventually, I realized my quiet demeanor communicated a presence assuring others I already understood their painful secret—even though I was nowhere near understanding my own.
When asked about my childhood, I always answered, “I don’t remember,” smiling with guarded anticipation and knowing such a simple response would not be sufficient. The problem was, if I attempted to answer truthfully, the emotional complexity intensified my confusion, and I quickly became stuck, unable to go back or move forward in my thoughts.
Over time, the questions about my childhood caused me to develop a defense in order to prevent an uprising of anxiety or a sense of obligation to go beyond my response. I mastered the art of redirecting the focus away from me, while at the same time, giving my undivided attention to hearing another person’s story. In fact, I felt a deep interest in other people’s stories, and I remained engaged as they shared their hearts. Whether they told me fond memories of joy-filled experiences or those darker memories of violence and violation, I longed to hear the chronicles of their past. I didn’t understand this urge at the time. Yet, I felt compelled to seek someone else’s childhood story, to seek one I could adopt as my own. I resonated with the terrifying, but I yearned for the loving.
Over the years, the repetition of, “I don’t remember,” caused me to believe my childhood had been lost and held no redemptive value. Because of this, after a while, I no longer felt concerned someone would break the complicated code of untruth. So powerful are the mind’s tactics for survival, I actually believed it was common for adults not to remember the first ten years of life. By completely discounting these precious years—the years God designed to enable little ones to learn to live in faith and wonder—I maintained an intentional disconnect. I needed to ensure a forgotten little boy would have no relevance to the man I became.
I reasoned to myself, How can the fragile innocence and unashamed expectation of a child, who hopes to be a Jedi knight or a princess and to fully experience the bliss of barefoot summers, swimming pools, and puppy dogs, along with the most pure desire to be loved—how can those things, even when they are received, become the unshakable foundation that can hold the weight of life? To me it didn’t make sense. I believed dreaming was dangerous and I did not allow myself hope or joy. Such restraint was an exercise of strength and self-protection. Exercising my defenses daily allowed me to avoid being hurt or afraid.
For most of my life, I rigorously upheld and reinforced the vows I made in my heart as a boy. The declarations proved themselves an effective cushion against pain. Thus, I became a seasoned performer in a continuous battle between my untouchable secret, which I hid behind so many lies, and the force of a gentle and sovereign truth. This truth was, and still is, unwilling to leave behind a forgotten little boy, accepting no less than complete victory and authentic freedom for the man I have become. Though I said, “I don’t remember my childhood,” the truth would not let me forget, would not let go until I learned to love that little lost boy.
This is my story.