Memories
"Memory ... is the diary that we all carry about with us." - Oscar Wilde
For a long time I couldn't remember much of my life before my 20's. And what I could remember felt surreal, I remembered things the way you might remember a movie you watched. Not as pieces of my own life, my own experiences; but rather as events I witnessed in some long ago, far off place.
In the spring of 2008, my husband and I packed up our two small children and moved back "home". Home, to me, isn't where I was born. In fact, it's across the country from where I spent my first decade. To me, there's a difference between "where I'm from", and the place I call home. In my home town, I went to high school. I met my husband. I moved out of my mother's house. These years, more than my early years, feel formative to me.
Moving back home was a revelation to me. I was part of a close-knit group of friends as a teenager, and I'd lost touch with all of those friends when we moved away. Everyone except my best friend and my husband. These were people who I spent countless hours with. People I poured my heart out to. People who knew me and liked me anyway, and I knew and loved them too.
Knew. That's the key word.
We moved back and I could barely remember these people. I didn't even try to get in touch, I didn't know what to say. I didn't remember our time together. I couldn't say "Hey, remember that time when we...." I knew that they had been my friends, and I knew that they had been good friends. I knew I spent time, a lot of time with them - but when it came to remembering how or where that time was spent... my mind was an absolute blank. It was exasperating and baffling.
Then an unexpected tragedy happened. One of my oldest friends suffered the loss of her mother, a woman who I'd been very close to as a teenager. Who was, for a number of years, like another mother to me. She was only in her mid-50's, and her passing was a shock to everyone. I had been back home for a couple years at the time and had thought about her now and again. I wanted see her, but I didn't know what to say. Everything and everyone still felt unfamiliar to me. I told myself I would get around to it, I'd get in touch, I told myself I had time. I didn't, and I never did see her before she died.
I braced myself for the memorial service. I knew that all these friends had kept in touch, had gone on without me, had remained close over the years. I knew that I would have to face them, I knew my mind would blank. I was afraid they would try to reminisce. I felt awkward. But I needed to go, I needed to offer condolences, I needed to say goodbye.
My childhood was a mess of trauma and my mind simply shut out years of memories to protect me. They were there, locked away, I couldn't access them. To this day there are people who's faces I recognize, who's names I know, but I recall nothing about them. Not having ever met them. Not spending time with them. Nothing. I would almost suspect that we never did, in fact, meet - except they remember me.
Because of all of this, I've spent the last handful of years trying hard to recollect things. It has really brought it home to me that I need to remember. When I moved away, everything was out of sight, out of mind. I didn't keep in touch, I wasn't surrounded by the places. It didn't bother me when everything slipped away, because I just didn't think about it. I didn't need to. Now, I'm forced to confront my glaring memory gaps. Now, I feel mentally crippled.
Over the past few years, I've been trying hard to pull memories out. What seems to work is thinking hard about a period of time and try to pluck out a memory of that time. Something, anything. And once I can do that, I take that point and try to flesh it out, move forward in time sequentially.
This happened, and then what?
For example:
When I was 8 years old, what happened? Where did I live? What happened when we lived there? When I was a kid, we moved a lot - so I can use that to pinpoint things in a timeline.
I have some hazy memories of the place we lived then. Random things. It was a townhouse. It was brand new when we moved in, so much that the kitchen cupboards had to be put up during the first week we lived there. My best friend lived in the apartment building across the street from our complex. We had a creek next to the property, and we'd play there when it was warm. And still... nothing specific... except bullying. Only the bad. Sometimes that's what I have to go with.
Since we moved so frequently, I was the perpetual new kid. I was poor and I was painfully shy. I didn't integrate well with the kids, I kept to myself because I didn't know what else to do. I desperately wanted friends, I wanted to fit in, but I couldn't. I wished that someone would take me under their wing, so to speak, but nobody ever did - I was the awkward kid that everyone zeroed in on, the weakest link.
So I remember splashes of abuse. A snowball full of ice to the face. A punch in the gut. Being spit on. Being held down and hit with sticks. And the taunts, that I was ugly, stupid, and nobody loved me. Sadly, I remember too many of those things in vivid detail.
Then... I remember a girl who's mother took me along with her to the circus. It was the only time I'd ever been - to this day, it's the only time I've ever gone and it was magical to me. My family was very poor, and there were 4 kids so we didn't have money to do things like that. I felt so lucky.
All I remember of the show was the elephant. I'd read a story about Jumbo the elephant at school and I was fascinated, I was torn up when he died at the end. After the circus, we walked back to her apartment and it was late, far later than I ever got to stay up. Her mom let us stay up and watch The Last Unicorn. And I was happy.
I don't remember another single thing about that girl. I don't know her name, where I met her, if I ever saw her again. I don't even remember what she looked like. But I know I had a good time with her, and it was a bright spot in my childhood.
Sometimes people tell me that I have a knack for writing, and that I should write. I can't give myself that much credit, and if I'm going to be completely honest it scares me to open myself up to possible ridicule. However - I know I'm not bad at putting things into writing, I'm far better at that than I am at talking to anyone face to face.
Every time I try to think about what to write about, my mind goes in circles. Ideas that I think are tired and done. I imagine writing fiction, but I feel that if I did, it would be heavily influenced by my own experience at any rate. Frankly, sometimes I think it would be easier to hide behind fiction, let people think it's not real. But it is, it was... and perhaps it would be cathartic for me to get it all out.
I've decided that I could carry it on as a series, as it comes. Maybe it will satisfy some people's voyeuristic tendencies. Maybe it'll help someone feel less alone. It will be no holds barred. It will be dark at times, but I hope to pull out more memories that are good. I know they're in there somewhere.
Having spent so much time thinking about these things, I've realized that along with all the bad I've forgotten, the good got lost too - and more than anything, that's what I'm searching for.
The beginning...
For a long time I couldn't remember much of my life before my 20's. And what I could remember felt surreal, I remembered things the way you might remember a movie you watched. Not as pieces of my own life, my own experiences; but rather as events I witnessed in some long ago, far off place.
In the spring of 2008, my husband and I packed up our two small children and moved back "home". Home, to me, isn't where I was born. In fact, it's across the country from where I spent my first decade. To me, there's a difference between "where I'm from", and the place I call home. In my home town, I went to high school. I met my husband. I moved out of my mother's house. These years, more than my early years, feel formative to me.
Moving back home was a revelation to me. I was part of a close-knit group of friends as a teenager, and I'd lost touch with all of those friends when we moved away. Everyone except my best friend and my husband. These were people who I spent countless hours with. People I poured my heart out to. People who knew me and liked me anyway, and I knew and loved them too.
Knew. That's the key word.
We moved back and I could barely remember these people. I didn't even try to get in touch, I didn't know what to say. I didn't remember our time together. I couldn't say "Hey, remember that time when we...." I knew that they had been my friends, and I knew that they had been good friends. I knew I spent time, a lot of time with them - but when it came to remembering how or where that time was spent... my mind was an absolute blank. It was exasperating and baffling.
Then an unexpected tragedy happened. One of my oldest friends suffered the loss of her mother, a woman who I'd been very close to as a teenager. Who was, for a number of years, like another mother to me. She was only in her mid-50's, and her passing was a shock to everyone. I had been back home for a couple years at the time and had thought about her now and again. I wanted see her, but I didn't know what to say. Everything and everyone still felt unfamiliar to me. I told myself I would get around to it, I'd get in touch, I told myself I had time. I didn't, and I never did see her before she died.
I braced myself for the memorial service. I knew that all these friends had kept in touch, had gone on without me, had remained close over the years. I knew that I would have to face them, I knew my mind would blank. I was afraid they would try to reminisce. I felt awkward. But I needed to go, I needed to offer condolences, I needed to say goodbye.
My childhood was a mess of trauma and my mind simply shut out years of memories to protect me. They were there, locked away, I couldn't access them. To this day there are people who's faces I recognize, who's names I know, but I recall nothing about them. Not having ever met them. Not spending time with them. Nothing. I would almost suspect that we never did, in fact, meet - except they remember me.
Because of all of this, I've spent the last handful of years trying hard to recollect things. It has really brought it home to me that I need to remember. When I moved away, everything was out of sight, out of mind. I didn't keep in touch, I wasn't surrounded by the places. It didn't bother me when everything slipped away, because I just didn't think about it. I didn't need to. Now, I'm forced to confront my glaring memory gaps. Now, I feel mentally crippled.
Over the past few years, I've been trying hard to pull memories out. What seems to work is thinking hard about a period of time and try to pluck out a memory of that time. Something, anything. And once I can do that, I take that point and try to flesh it out, move forward in time sequentially.
This happened, and then what?
For example:
When I was 8 years old, what happened? Where did I live? What happened when we lived there? When I was a kid, we moved a lot - so I can use that to pinpoint things in a timeline.
I have some hazy memories of the place we lived then. Random things. It was a townhouse. It was brand new when we moved in, so much that the kitchen cupboards had to be put up during the first week we lived there. My best friend lived in the apartment building across the street from our complex. We had a creek next to the property, and we'd play there when it was warm. And still... nothing specific... except bullying. Only the bad. Sometimes that's what I have to go with.
Since we moved so frequently, I was the perpetual new kid. I was poor and I was painfully shy. I didn't integrate well with the kids, I kept to myself because I didn't know what else to do. I desperately wanted friends, I wanted to fit in, but I couldn't. I wished that someone would take me under their wing, so to speak, but nobody ever did - I was the awkward kid that everyone zeroed in on, the weakest link.
So I remember splashes of abuse. A snowball full of ice to the face. A punch in the gut. Being spit on. Being held down and hit with sticks. And the taunts, that I was ugly, stupid, and nobody loved me. Sadly, I remember too many of those things in vivid detail.
Then... I remember a girl who's mother took me along with her to the circus. It was the only time I'd ever been - to this day, it's the only time I've ever gone and it was magical to me. My family was very poor, and there were 4 kids so we didn't have money to do things like that. I felt so lucky.
All I remember of the show was the elephant. I'd read a story about Jumbo the elephant at school and I was fascinated, I was torn up when he died at the end. After the circus, we walked back to her apartment and it was late, far later than I ever got to stay up. Her mom let us stay up and watch The Last Unicorn. And I was happy.
I don't remember another single thing about that girl. I don't know her name, where I met her, if I ever saw her again. I don't even remember what she looked like. But I know I had a good time with her, and it was a bright spot in my childhood.
Sometimes people tell me that I have a knack for writing, and that I should write. I can't give myself that much credit, and if I'm going to be completely honest it scares me to open myself up to possible ridicule. However - I know I'm not bad at putting things into writing, I'm far better at that than I am at talking to anyone face to face.
Every time I try to think about what to write about, my mind goes in circles. Ideas that I think are tired and done. I imagine writing fiction, but I feel that if I did, it would be heavily influenced by my own experience at any rate. Frankly, sometimes I think it would be easier to hide behind fiction, let people think it's not real. But it is, it was... and perhaps it would be cathartic for me to get it all out.
I've decided that I could carry it on as a series, as it comes. Maybe it will satisfy some people's voyeuristic tendencies. Maybe it'll help someone feel less alone. It will be no holds barred. It will be dark at times, but I hope to pull out more memories that are good. I know they're in there somewhere.
Having spent so much time thinking about these things, I've realized that along with all the bad I've forgotten, the good got lost too - and more than anything, that's what I'm searching for.
The beginning...
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