I don’t much remember my childhood. More specifically, the names or faces of my elementary school teachers, or the classes they taught. I assume I had classes, I seem to recall getting graded by checkmarks and stars; but the details of where they came from is a little hazy.
I feel like there’s something wrong for me for not remembering.
As long as we’re talking about not remembering, I also don’t remember having any childhood friends, though I must have for my parents to have the stories that they do. Unless, of course, they got together one afternoon and collectively decided to manufacture a life for me; one that didn’t reflect the truth of my lying in bed alone from age 4 to 10, or my successful childhood attempt of constructing my own reality replete with imaginary friends and entertainment.
That’s all in theory, of course.