There's no easy way to talk about this, as its something that makes me cringe internally every time I think about it, and it randomly popped into my thoughts this evening.

I was a very gullible, non-analytical child. Almost no critical thinking and a powerful drive for fantasy. The notion of things being magical or otherwise unexplained never phased me, and even now I think I can be a little confused between literary maneuvers and reality, though exposure and practice have made me a little better at determining stuff that's obviously made up.

Basically I believed in Santa until I was around 12-13 years old. Lost the Easter Bunny and tooth fairy a few years prior for "normal" reasons, (mom caught in the act, familiar brands, etc), but somehow never extended the logic. Magic worked just fine, until inklings from TV and other media prompted me to ask, and even then I was skeptical of the "no" I got. For whatever reason it never bothered me much after that, except when I think of how old I was.

My mom and I have been getting along better lately and I called and asked her. Apparently, she went to great lengths to make sure I kept believing, though I never thought about it much. She insists that it was important to keep the fantasy alive because my father died right around the age most kids find out, and she didn't want me to lose too much too fast. She doesn't believe the accounts of children figuring it out by themselves either. Before you ask if no one else told me, I vaguely remember some kid in first grade telling me the truth, and I responded with something to the effect of "Yeah right". I had no siblings, no family members my own age, and few to no friends who could have told me either.

My mom believes my long-lasting fantasy was a good thing. Numerous articles say otherwise, implying that I either had ****** parents, or (the reason I'm confessing this here), that I have some sort of disability or mental defect. That killing the fantasy is a necessary part of maturing and leaving childhood and denying kids that is holding them back from the harsh realities of life. I even asked my mom why she trusted me to attend my father's funeral but wouldn't give me the truth about a popular myth. That there's something wrong - possibly deeply wrong - with a preteen who still believes a magical fantasy. I'm a little scared, and deeply ashamed that I couldn't even reason it out for myself when the illogic is supposed to be so obvious. I don't think it's affected me in any serious way, but I can't be sure...

God, this is stupid, but for some reason the shame of this little thing from my past and fear about what it implies for me bothers me every now and then. Also I write too much and I'm sorry.