Frame of Reference
I always knew that my parents had some kind of “family secret.” Various mutterings amended streams of conscious, etc. in my childhood. From the sound of it, I was under the impression that I had an older sibling.
I am the oldest sibling of four, so I was fixated on the few little details, but as I grew older, I assumed it was a very morbid kind of imaginary friend delusion I had. When I was in high school, I was talking to my mother when she slipped, saying something about her early relationship with my dad.
I pushed her on it and found out that she had stayed with my dad after they had a child at age 15. She went on to tell me that I’d had not one, but three older siblings, and that they were lost in some kind of accident. My mom broke down. I didn’t push for details and never have.
That day, I went from being the oldest of four to the middle of seven. Probably my frame of reference for the concept of “trauma.” Every obsession, every worry, and character flaw of my teenage self at that time burned into my character like scars.