The Toddlerhood Memory Gap: The Man Who Lived in Our Home
I had written in my diary once that I don’t remember my uncle at all.
He (Mum’s half-brother) was a man who lived in my toddlerhood home throughout 1968. He moved out when I was three-and-a-half.
A common question one might ask is ‘what is your earliest memory?’ On face value, mine is nothing unusual or at least, nothing that could explain my intrusive thoughts and horrible dreams. I have short memory-clips or ‘stills’ that make little sense. These memories might occur to me now and again to be forgotten.
It would seem earlier memories become shorter, more obscured. These ‘flicker-memories’ as I now call them, are beyond doubt as they have been there my entire life. They come and go. Pulsing déjà vu.
I have a flicker-memory of Eve and me being ferried across the recreation ground in our wide pushchair. The pusher was not a parent but a male adult family member with dark hair. After years of not questioning this memory, I suddenly pause.
Another flicker-memory is of Eve and me in the bath around midday. The water is cold and splashing echoes out. The same 'man' is there. I don’t know what is going on and never questioned this memory.
I have another of drifting down the guestroom stairs. I feel sick and faint.
And another of coming-to on my bed one cloudy afternoon. A vortex of twisted phantoms screamed in my head. I must have awoken from a nightmare (I had assumed).
One day, Dad took Eve and me to woodlands to collect catkins and pussy willows. At a clearing, my nerves jangled. This dread returned every time Dad took me to woods in cloudy weather.
Questions kept pushing to the front of my head. Why was a man in the bathroom with toddlers? I had never attributed him to being Uncle Dan, just a presence. He had run us a bath.
I met him a few times in adulthood and found him overbearing and creepy. He kept a meat-cleaver on his living room wall. I wouldn’t want to be left alone with him.
Still, he was an uncle who (I believed) had stayed at our cottage briefly. He had nothing to do with me at all. He globe-trotted, did war service, far away from us. Far, far away.
He slept in a partition room after taking the guestroom. I used to write prayers in that room. Terrified.
Horrible questions arise. What was this ‘man’ doing living with us? Why was he there? I know he took me out in the pushchair. Did he take me anywhere else? If so, where?
In 1968, nine of us lived in the cottage.
Shortly before Mum’s death, I learned Uncle Dan had turned up one night with suitcases, claiming he was ‘on the run’.
With our uncle turning out to occupy a big part of my toddlerhood, my unease grew. And grew. The more I learned, the worse I felt. A hideous picture grows big in my head. Looking at photos of Uncle Dan now, I am sickened.
His simper betrays of vanity, broad, moustached with slicked-back hair. He deserted his family and had affairs. After his police-stint, he’d been in prison, a mental hospital and vanished for long spells. He looked creepy, greasy and shady.
A creepy grifter had cuckooed his way into my toddlerhood home.
For most of my life, my parents and siblings knew something I had failed to grasp. A man had lived under our roof for a year. Twenty years later, Mum would let-out that partition room to another sponging ex-con.
A nasty dawning falls heavy, leaving despair. What’s happened to me? A lifelong lie has overshadowed my toddlerhood, and my foundations have vapourised into smoke. For almost fifty years, I assumed my toddlerhood was safe, normal, like my nieces and nephews I used to mind.
As I had erased his presence from my conscious memory, I believed he had nothing to do with me at all. Had a unique event not triggered a terrible memory of him rearing over me, I would have continued to believe I had shared my childhood home with only my siblings, parents and occasionally Nan. No one else. And this belief would have remained until the day I had died.
About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon
Themes in my work
How my writing turned ugly in my teens
How a man in my head took over my inner life
He (Mum’s half-brother) was a man who lived in my toddlerhood home throughout 1968. He moved out when I was three-and-a-half.
A common question one might ask is ‘what is your earliest memory?’ On face value, mine is nothing unusual or at least, nothing that could explain my intrusive thoughts and horrible dreams. I have short memory-clips or ‘stills’ that make little sense. These memories might occur to me now and again to be forgotten.
Me fainting down the stairs (taken from my book Mirror Image Shattered)
Trauma Memories Tamed by Denial
I remember our swimming pool, the old caravan, and the day before Eve (my twin) cut her face. Mum takes Eve and me to the village in a wide pushchair.It would seem earlier memories become shorter, more obscured. These ‘flicker-memories’ as I now call them, are beyond doubt as they have been there my entire life. They come and go. Pulsing déjà vu.
I have a flicker-memory of Eve and me being ferried across the recreation ground in our wide pushchair. The pusher was not a parent but a male adult family member with dark hair. After years of not questioning this memory, I suddenly pause.
Another flicker-memory is of Eve and me in the bath around midday. The water is cold and splashing echoes out. The same 'man' is there. I don’t know what is going on and never questioned this memory.
I have another of drifting down the guestroom stairs. I feel sick and faint.
And another of coming-to on my bed one cloudy afternoon. A vortex of twisted phantoms screamed in my head. I must have awoken from a nightmare (I had assumed).
The Man of my Toddlerhood I can’t Remember
I have explained these flicker-memories to…well, I don’t know; the wiring of a developing toddlerhood brain. When I think of them, I feel nothing. My conscious awareness has nothing to add, and these memories have receded into the background like wallpaper. But there they remained. Disembodied déjà vu pulsing every several years.One day, Dad took Eve and me to woodlands to collect catkins and pussy willows. At a clearing, my nerves jangled. This dread returned every time Dad took me to woods in cloudy weather.
Questions kept pushing to the front of my head. Why was a man in the bathroom with toddlers? I had never attributed him to being Uncle Dan, just a presence. He had run us a bath.
I met him a few times in adulthood and found him overbearing and creepy. He kept a meat-cleaver on his living room wall. I wouldn’t want to be left alone with him.
Still, he was an uncle who (I believed) had stayed at our cottage briefly. He had nothing to do with me at all. He globe-trotted, did war service, far away from us. Far, far away.
The Man Who Shouldn’t Have Been There
Dad had related of Uncle Dan a few times. He used to tease Nan and covertly sip her gin to confuse her. Stories abound he chased women and adventures. When I had reached my forties, these Dan-stories took a sinister timbre. He lowered the standards of the cottage, sponged off us and took jokes too far. Mum apparently kept telling him off. Telling him off? I didn’t like the idea of ‘teasers’ near young children. How far did his ‘teasing’ go?He slept in a partition room after taking the guestroom. I used to write prayers in that room. Terrified.
Horrible questions arise. What was this ‘man’ doing living with us? Why was he there? I know he took me out in the pushchair. Did he take me anywhere else? If so, where?
In 1968, nine of us lived in the cottage.
Shortly before Mum’s death, I learned Uncle Dan had turned up one night with suitcases, claiming he was ‘on the run’.
With our uncle turning out to occupy a big part of my toddlerhood, my unease grew. And grew. The more I learned, the worse I felt. A hideous picture grows big in my head. Looking at photos of Uncle Dan now, I am sickened.
His simper betrays of vanity, broad, moustached with slicked-back hair. He deserted his family and had affairs. After his police-stint, he’d been in prison, a mental hospital and vanished for long spells. He looked creepy, greasy and shady.
A creepy grifter had cuckooed his way into my toddlerhood home.
My book Mirror Image Shattered tells the full story.
Writing from the Trauma of my Toddlerhood
The sexual undertone in my novels come into question. Themes of entrapment, abuse and smothering are everywhere. Are my intrusive thoughts flashbacks? Surely not! These intrusive thoughts are groundless and borne of Dad’s mental illness and a turbulent upbringing! The doctor said himself they are just of the mind! Again and again, I blamed everything on the wrong things.For most of my life, my parents and siblings knew something I had failed to grasp. A man had lived under our roof for a year. Twenty years later, Mum would let-out that partition room to another sponging ex-con.
A nasty dawning falls heavy, leaving despair. What’s happened to me? A lifelong lie has overshadowed my toddlerhood, and my foundations have vapourised into smoke. For almost fifty years, I assumed my toddlerhood was safe, normal, like my nieces and nephews I used to mind.
Blank Space in the Toddlerhood Brain
The knowledge roused no feelings or memories of Mum's brother. There are no photos of him at the cottage. I don’t remember sitting on his lap or having any interaction with him at all. He seldom contacted my family after he left, and only Dad and Nan spoke much of him afterwards. It was as if he was never there.As I had erased his presence from my conscious memory, I believed he had nothing to do with me at all. Had a unique event not triggered a terrible memory of him rearing over me, I would have continued to believe I had shared my childhood home with only my siblings, parents and occasionally Nan. No one else. And this belief would have remained until the day I had died.
Relevant Posts on the Blog
Home About this blog and popular posts.About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon
Themes in my work
How my writing turned ugly in my teens
How a man in my head took over my inner life
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