Since we’re talking about faeries, I’d ask if any of you ever really believed in faeries or mythical beings growing up, and how you came to learn that they weren’t real. I’ve got a story of my own – it’s kind of cringe-worthy, really, but in the interest of getting this conversation going I thought that it would be only fair if I went first.
Keep reading. I’ve gone this far. You might as well hear my own sordid tale.
This is kind of embarrassing, but I believed in the Easter Bunny for quite a few years. Now, I had Santa Claus all figured out. Even ruined it for my sister by taking her directly to the closet where my parents hid our gifts. Thought I was very sophisticated; a smart child. However, for some reason I continued to believe in a man-sized anthropomorphic rabbit bearing candy and eggs. If I think about it hard enough I can even remember what I believed him to look like. I can see his short gray fur and basket. See his hat, too. I believed in this bunny as a certainty of existence just as surely as I did the sun and the moon. This bunny was a bit of real magic in the world. This continued for a few years longer than it should have, and was only ruined when my mother, incredulous, asked “You don’t really believe in a giant bunny that brings us candy, do you?” No, I responded. Of course not. I had, of course. I was probably six or seven.
When I grew up to become a non-bunny believing adult I learned that children see their world in an entirely different manner from older people. Their brains are still growing, and especially young children perceive things in a “magical” way that is indicative of their lack of insight into actions and their consequences. The boundaries between real and imaginary – even self and other – aren’t firm. Because of this, the existence of faeries, monsters and even giant bunny rabbits can be plausible to a youngster. Had I found a bunch of Easter grass and plastic eggs in my parents’ closet instead of a new bicycle I might be writing about my protracted belief in Santa Claus today.
Well, I’ve shared my own embarrassing story. Do you have one? Share your own tales of magic and loss here.
I will admit that I believed in the supernatural until a surprisingly late age, maybe 8?
This was probably a result of my abolute terror of the night. Not darkness neccesarily, but night. I was convinced there were ‘things’ in the night. I was right, but they were the ordinary night things in any rural area; deer, owls, and racoons.
It’s strange the way things turn around on themselves, because my older self finds the night restful, invigorating and preferable to the daytime.
But it doesn’t take much to let my mind go and re-envision that world of darkness with it’s unseen monsters and goblins. Perhaps that’s why I love fantasy so much.
I had Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny ruined for me on my first day of primary school but I still mannaged to believe in other aspects of the supernatural.
I played with leprechauns when I was young. I can’t see them anymore–I think it takes young eyes.
I don’t remember a time when I believed in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny—I’d wake up when my parents were replacing my tooth with money and pretend I was asleep; I, too, knew where the presents were hidden from a young age.
I wish I could remember a time when I did believe in, at the very least, Santa Claus. There must have been one, but I feel a little sad I can’t recall it.