On most days, I’m extremely grateful for the nature of the memory I possess. Yet, every once in a while, as I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling as sleep eludes me, I would much rather have the ability to forget. You see, I don’t have the kind of memory where I remember every single date or time when something eventful happened. I cannot store long lists of items in my head to recite them later, and if you were to go against me in a memory game, you’d probably win. My kind of memory deals with people and I’m beginning to think it is simultaneously the best and worst kind of powerful memory to possess.
I remember everything you said. It doesn’t matter if you said it ten years ago or ten minutes ago, if I care about you enough and was paying attention, be rest assured that even the most meaningless words you just spoke have been permanently seared into my brain in ways I’m powerless to control. It gets even better. I don’t just remember the words themselves, I remember the little half smile that played across your face as you spoke them, that never quite made it to your eyes. I remember the way your eyebrows went up in surprise and the way your mouth formed a little ‘o’. I don’t have to try very hard to bring up the image of your eyes brimming with the tears you were too proud to allow to freely flow down your face. I can feel the hesitation you felt, as you wondered whether or not to say something you wanted to – the quick little glance into my eyes, and a nervous twitch of the fingers – wondering whether I could be trusted with whatever was on your mind. Your eyes quickly looking away as I caught on. I can begin to recall something about you, only to have the image of the time you threw your head back and guffawed fill my visual space. I can easily recall the little quirks you told me about your family and friends, and how your entire being lit up at the very thought of the people you loved. My memory as I can best describe it, is like playing back the exact moment something happened, with the images, the conversations and every feeling that was felt in it, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it.
In conversations over text, where I can’t see how you felt, I remember exactly how I did. Every time I re-read or think of a conversation that had any emotional significance to me, I can recall the moment it happened with nearly painful clarity – what I was doing, who was around me, what I wanted to say, and what I actually did. There have been moments when I’ve innocently brought up something someone said ages ago and has long since forgotten, and they look at me like I’m crazy. Why does she remember this? Over time, I’ve learnt to put a conscious effort into carefully avoiding this with anyone other than the very closest of my friends, lest I freak them out or lead them to draw undue conclusions. I have to keep telling myself they have probably forgotten, but I never will. Thankfully the people in my life are less perturbed by it than they were to begin with, but there are still times when it catches them off guard. It’s a little funny watching the shock flicker across their face for the shortest time before they remember this is just something I do.
At the risk of sounding ungrateful, here’s the issue with having a memory like mine – you don’t get to choose what you remember. You just remember it all. Sometimes, willfully trying to forget is a large part of healing. Some things are best forgotten – Trauma, betrayal, fleeting friendships and even some people. If you can return to your memories and find them just as raw and untarnished as the time you last visited them, and recall conversations word for word, feeling for feeling, it doesn’t bode well in most situations. You can go back and feel every euphoric high and each devastating low over and over again.
I can’t imagine what it’s like for my friends. Would it put pressure on them to say the right things, if their words are going to be recorded for posterity? Would it shape them into being someone they are not, or guilt them into being cautious with their truth, lest it hurt me? Would they hold back, till they were sure of what they wanted to say, and present me with a polished version of what they initially wanted to, instead of the raw, natural one? How long until the pressure got to them and they walked away? I wish I could tell them it was okay; this is just another part of who I am and to just ignore it. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could forget.
Staring At The Ceiling 