Fog in A Childhood Lost

I’ve had trouble tracking names, faces, behaviors, identities, over time. It’s been like walking through a mass of thick fog. It does not lift, and it does not differentiate. It is endless and it is timeless.
More recently, I have been behaving differently. I spoke to someone who said that she’d recently put her infant child in daycare. She said that she was happy about the decision, and I wondered if she was aware of the harm. I remarked about the impact daycare has on children of her son’s age and the specific time duration that resulted in the negative outcomes. Of course she blew up and accused me of judging her, of public shaming, of a lot of other patently absurd projections. I don’t want to say of course, but I would be wrong to say that I didn’t expect it. Still, I had no illusions about her, or her insanity. I had no difficulty in following her logic, even though it was unreasonable and irrational. More importantly, I had no problem giving her the respect of ownership over her behavior.
But that last bit is a very new phenomenon.
Because, I think, I was raised by a sadistic man and his enabling child-hating wife, I could never hold anyone accountable for their actions. I could never acknowledge the evil behavior because more evil and suffering would befall me if I did. I was forced to forget, or to simply fog all judgement, all memory, all association of behavior that was harmful. I had no power to hold account. I could not even get away from it.
I was trapped.
The fog was a defense against the horror in which I lived