Essai #6 - Snippets of My Childhood - Part I
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Here’s a sensitive, personal subject…
It might help or resonate with some of you.
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First story:
This story is about my biological father, of whom I have no memories except for one. At the time, I was probably around 4 or 5 years old when my mom and I left Lorraine (northern France), where I was born. We traveled to the south of France, where we stayed in the basement of my maternal grandfather's house. My mom wished to escape my father's family, which was toxic and threatening. Not long before, my father had done strange things to my mom, like stealing a large sum of her money to buy drugs in Amsterdam to resell, or getting involved in shady mafia dealings, inviting men into the living room to indulge in opium on the couch. Sadly, my mom probably didn't know the full extent of what my father was involved in... Anyway.
At that time, my father had been using Neocodion (codeine), a derivative of opium. He always told my mom that he was just "hanging out" when I was born, but that wasn’t the truth. Not long after, my father came to join us in the basement, maybe to heal the relationship with my mom. However, my mom wasn’t as naive as she may have seemed. She eventually found the hidden codeine pills my father had stashed away. Furious, she turned red with anger and was strong enough to break our big wooden table, the one we used to eat on. She screamed incredibly loud, grabbed my biological father by the arm, and threw him out of the house. I remember seeing him from about 100 meters away, behind the gate, while I was being held in my half-sister's arms. Now I know where my codeine allergy comes from. That was the last time I saw him alive.
Second story:
When I was around 7 or 8, my mother reunited with the father of her first children, and my older half-sister hadn’t been living with us for some time. I remember a period when my first father-in-law was consumed by alcohol. He always had his 5L box of rosé wine next to my mom’s kitchen machine, and his glass would always be standing there, waiting for him— empty. Those were tough times.
I would often hide under my small bed, covering my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear the chaos unfolding in the kitchen. He would destroy things in our apartment out of anger, and this would happen about three or four times a week. During that time, my half-brother (his son) was doing typical teenage things, like stealing scooters or swimming in private property, bringing the police and his problems home. Sadly for him, he would often get punched violently in front of me as a consequence.
One day, my mother had had enough of the situation. She finally decided to confront this drunken beast once and for all. Things escalated quickly, and all I remember from that night are screams and a handful of hair on the ground — my mom had been lucky enough to tear it from his head. After that, he fled, punched a window, left blood on the floor, and out of fear, we had to sleep somewhere else. That was the last time I saw him.
These two stories are just a glimpse into my past. I know I’m not alone in having experienced things like this. Through therapy, I learned that I had been dissociated from myself for a long time because I wasn’t supposed to witness all of that at such a young age. The consequences of this dissociation are many, including not remembering the good moments from my childhood, even specific dates, difficulty concentrating at school, and much more.
I grew up in my own way. I couldn’t be who I am today if I hadn’t found ways to express myself, such as through art and spirituality.
I’d like to close these stories with these two citations:
Henri Matisse:
"L'art c'est la vie" ("Art is life")
Gandhiji:
"Be the change that you wish to see in the world"
mot4i