Memory is a Funny Thing [Me]

I made a new friend, found out he had a blog, started reading it... so I'll be sharing thoughts from there to here. Back in 2003, Ferret wrote this blog about memory. And to parts of what he said, a giant 'YES' sounds in my mind.

It occurs to me that I have a very strange memory. 

I can't really remember long-term events; they just sort of fade away. I'm terrible with names. I run into friends, and I remember that I really enjoyed their company, and I can tell you what they're like... But I can never remember exactly what it was that I did with them. 

I dread reunions with my high-school and college buddies. They always - always - say, "Hey, don't you remember the time we stole a police car?" or some such event. It sounds really exciting, some of the stuff we did, and I really wish I'd been there... But the me standing here in 2002 simply wasn't there. The me that experienced that event is dead, buried in layers of fog. 

Invariably, I smile wanly and say, "Hey, I must have forgotten that," and they tell me about something terribly witty I said, or something extremely foolhardy that we did. 

It's a blank to me. My past is like a fog.... 

People who leave me are like ghosts; I love the people who are with me intensely, more deeply than most people can. I have a vast capacity for loving the ones near me... But the minute they leave, they start to fade. It becomes harder and harder to see them. I forget to call, even though I know I should... But they're in the past, and the past barely exists for me. 

I abandon easily. I dislike that about myself, but it's hard - so hard - to remember the men who aren't touching me now. 

There is one exception to this, and that's stories. If I can encapsulate an event in an amusing story, then I can remember it; stories are my life capsule. But even then, I rarely have any sense memory of the events in the stories: I remember the facts, I remember how to arrange those facts for maximum impact, and I remember the punchline - but often it's a big frosted blank in my memory. 

I have stories, intensely personal stories, that could have been someone else for all the emotional connection that I have to them. I simply relate them, and hope that they're still mine.
I think it's all a very big defense mechanism.

Oh, how I wish I'd saved my comments to him before posting them; they're awaiting moderation, so I can't see them now. But what he wrote really said something I've often felt and thought about. I hear people tell about things that happened in their past, and it's obvious that they are really re-experiencing the event. Their nose crinkles at the smell, they feel the emotions again. I'm jealous of that. I can tell you a story about my childhood, or my daughter's childhood, or even something from a month ago, and it's just a story. If it's a good one, I may really enjoy telling it, or I may enjoy seeing your reaction. But I'm not experiencing it again.

It's like I file away the facts of events, but then lose the supporting evidence documents. I can tell you about taking my daughter to the zoo, for example. I recall the fact that we went. I can tell you what the entrance to the zoo looked like, because I have seen the pictures we took of it. I can tell you that the elephant house stank, because there's a note recorded in my brain that we complained of the stench - but I can't remember what it smelled like. I know that we climbed on the jungle-gym there and had a wonderful time, but I can't remember what the rope under my hands felt like. I know we ate food there, because we were there for a while, but I don't know what we ate or if it was good or bad. I remember going through the bamboo trail, and that it was beautiful, but I can't really recall why it was beautiful. And as I write this, I think that I am probably collating several trips to several different zoos into one. I think the entrance we took pictures of is in Memphis, and the elephant house is in, maybe, Louisville, and I know the jungle-gym is in Nashville.

I can tell you stories of being abused by my first husband, fighting, yelling, running to the police. But there's not emotional connection to them. Honestly, I think the only reason I can remember what happened is because I have told the story enough times that it 'stuck'. Maybe if I'd been less open about the abuse, I wouldn't even know, now, that I had been abused. Of our entire eleven months of marriage, I have no clear memories, just stories. I recall that I used to tell the stories of a recovered memory of taking a bath, of nursing my daughter. I don't have those, anymore, either. I do vaguely recall sitting on the porch rocking back and forth chanting. I think that one's a memory of the actual event, because I don't think I've actually told that one to anyone.

And it's not just events years ago that I can't remember. I can't remember what I did last week, unless I look on my calendar or reason it out. Let's see, it was Tuesday, and that's usually my day to run errands. I got such-and-such errands done this week, so that night I must have done x... Yeah, that's how it goes. It's no wonder I'm so attracted to routines and recurring plans. It makes the reasoning easier.

So if I start telling you a story about my past, and you've heard it before, maybe I'm not just telling you the story. You see, I'm also telling myself the story. It's the closest thing I have to remembering the event I'm telling you about.