As a child I saw my parents as infallible. They were all I knew of what was good and what was right with the world, they appeared flawless; my father could do no wrong for I knew of no wrong to be done. I assumingly saw their role as that of protector, of mentor; I viewed their knowledge of the world as unadulterated. I heard and trusted their word as truth, not yet aware that I would one day find my own truths for which to live by.
Childhood is the blissfulness of not yet being fully aware. A view of the world still untarnished, unblemished . . . untainted with the understanding of loss, of hate, of ignorance, of disappointment and of fear. Childhood is unsoiled with the blood of war, or at least it should be.
So imagine my disillusionment to discover that my parents were not the superheroes I once supposed them to be; coming to the self-realization that they have the same capacity for mistakes as I.
Flawed.
Imperfect.
Human.
And I, in this body once child, no longer unmindful of all that is ugly in this world.
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Traumatic realization, no matter who you are or how old you are. Sometimes it's hard not to dwell on the realization, when really it would be better if I could just acknowledge the fact and move on. :)
ReplyDeleteOh, Megan, please keep on writing. Thank you.
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