"I don't remember"

I don't remember how or when I learned to fear men. I don't remember where I learned to feel unsafe in their presence. I could never remember if a man had hurt me when I was little or if I innately learned from the women in my life, and their open wounds inflicted by men, to be wary.
I don't remember feeling safe. Or comfortable. I don't remember thinking this was out of the ordinary. I don't remember feeling like a child.
I don't remember feeling unafraid of words or judgment. I don't remember thinking, fuck them. I know who I am and I don't care what they think or say.
I don't remember kindness to myself. I don't remember being able to embrace myself, saying it's ok. I am here. I've always been here and I will always be here. I love you. We will get through this together.
I don't remember when I knew I loved to write or why I ever denied my love for setting pen to paper. I know why I grew uncertain of my abilities and I know why I shied away from writing, but I don't remember why I chose to hold on to that criticism for so long.
I don't remember ever feeling like I was enough. I know I would fall asleep many nights going through the never-ending laundry list of things I would change about myself, if I could: I wish I were skinny; I wish I had green eyes; I wish I had the long, spindly legs of a dancer; I wish my skin were dewy and fresh and free of blemishes and stretch marks; I wish I had nice clothes, that I looked like I belonged; I wish I had strong, toned arms... and on and on until I finally just drifted off to sleep. I don't remember when I stopped doing that.