December 27, 2002
Rememberies
An On Display contribution.
For the longest time, my earliest memory was of arranging my belongings in what was now "my" bedroom in my Grandmother's house. Formerly it had been the room I occupied when I came to visit on weekends. After the passing of my mother, I moved in with my Grandmother and it became my room, permanently.
I was nine years old.
I don't even really recall when it was that I actually realized that I couldn't remember anything before that. I know I didn't dwell much in the past at all - I still don't. I'm a generally "live in today" kind of person, with the necessary forward looking associated with goals and whatnot. I'm quite sure the realization came as an older teenager, during the "getting to know you" phase of my relationship with my ex. At that point, it didn't bother me overly much. I was headstrong and trying out my independence, as long as it swayed in the same direction as my ex's wishes. The past was to be gotten away from and forgotten as childish and not in form with my new, grown-up self; the future was a vague and shady thing that would be dealt with when we got there.
When the trauma and difficulties with my relationship with my ex blew up, I had even less time to dwell on the past and basically spent most of my consciousness trying to get away and keep away from the psycho. There was therapy associated with this, and perhaps here was when I first realized how monumental a thing to not have childhood memories was. Cliche as it is, I believe most therapy sessions begin with, or somehow get around to, one's childhood as a topic of deep discussion.
Here, the therapist was thwarted and frustrated. And, of course, wished to search further into the why's and wherefore's of the absence of those memories. He even suggested hypnotherapy, which I outright refused. I figured that if there was something dank and traumatic hiding beneath the surface, as a direct result of "memory suppression", it would come out sooner or later. Not being a particularly psychotic or violent person, I knew that whatever was going on was most certainly not going to send me up the nearest clock tower with a high powered rifle.
And so I would deal with it when and if it came. Which is, pretty much, my attitude towards life.
For the year after my divorce, I played around with the edges of my memories, like fiddling with a loose tooth with the tip of my tongue. I had a lot of time to myself in which to think, and write; and, if need be, to melt down. I got a puppy (Gypsy), and I stocked up on journals. I walked, and I wrote. I rode my bike after dark, past the glowing windows of the houses in my neighborhood. I sat in the park for hours, laying in the grass and staring up at what stars are visible in this forsaken suburb. I was out alone, in the dark, often; hindsight tells me that I was lucky that I was never bothered or attacked. A beagle puppy is just not adequate deterrent for criminals.
I think once I was able to distill my life down to just me, and clear away all the clutter that my life, up to that point, had been absolutely full of, I gained some clarity. Once all the noise settled down, things began to surface that had been dwelling in my mind all along, but were just held down by the bulk of the surface crap I had dealt with my entire life. Narrowed down to a few major things: The Jehovah's Witnesses and their belief that everything I experienced before I learned "The Truth" was evil and to be forgotten. Marriage to my ex and the mental and physical abuse that occurred. My family's traditional reticence in speaking about anything on a personal level.
I was kind of surprised that it wasn't the memories themselves, or even the trauma of losing my mother, that was keeping the recollection at bay. I think people attributed more for me, losing my mother, than I did myself. She simply wasn't around enough when I was little to make it the devastation it would have been if I hadn't already been independent of her. She worked nights, slept until after noon most days, and partied hard on her nights off. I dressed myself for school after Kindergarten, got my own breakfasts and lunches on the weekends and during summer vacation, and was usually outside playing from early morning until after dark, with the neighborhood kids. The memories I have now, which take place in my mother's house, include a babysitter or the wild parties my sister would throw with her friends.
My very first, earliest memory that I can recall now, was of myself at three, trying to eat a bulb off the Christmas tree at an Aunt's house. Next in line is playing with my Grandmother's neighbor's kids, Brad and Christine, on the weekends I would stay with her. Two weekends of the month with Grandma, two weekends of the month and Wednesday nights with my Aunt.
My mother does not hold my memories, and I think perhaps feeling guilty for that is what prevented me from wanting to recall my early childhood. She's dead, I should remember her, I don't, and I felt guilty that there were so many other things that played a more primary role in my childhood than she did. For many intents and purposes it seems like my life came into full detail beginning with the day I moved in with Grandma. It's kind of like "The Wizard of Oz", when the black-and-white Dorothy steps into the full technicolor of The Land of Oz. For certain, Grandma's passing was a MUCH more traumatic event in my life than my mother's - a fact I fully understand and don't waste time feeling guilty over. My Grandmother raised me, my mother didn't.
Personal happiness and the friendship I have found in Calvin is what has enabled me to discuss these difficult subjects. My newfound relationship with my sister is giving me more and more information each time we talk. As a result, more and more is coming back to me every day. For a time, I was absolutely obsessed with hearing every story, every detail, every little thing about my life and the lives of my family. There were amazing, gaping holes to be filled and I wanted, desperately, to put the pieces of the puzzle together and see the whole picture. I felt adrift, with no connections and no roots. That feeling was compounded at the passing of my Grandmother, and it was accompanied by a kind of terror at the contemplation of the sheer amount of things that I would never know. About myself, about my mother, about my family.
I toyed with the idea of contacting my father. My sister provided me with details that convinced me that it was absolutely the wrong thing to do. Probably fruitless, too, since I was just two when my parents divorced.
This past year, I have gone through periods of depression so great that the only thing I could do was push it back down and carry on as if I were a whole person inside. The possibility of regaining roots seemed pointless to me, if they couldn't be the ones that traced all the way back to my childhood. During the whole process of realization (yes, I did come to it), I knew that eventually most people move from their childhood roots and branch into roots they grow themselves - through their own, separate experiences; through their marriages and the families they bring into the world. They retain their childhood as their taproot, maybe, but eventually grow their own that are thicker and more deeply entrenched in the end.
So, I just had a cleaner break than most. The memories are there, they're just in black-and-white. With Grandma they gained color, and, to take the metaphor to a nauseating level, with my life now the memories are sharply 3-D. However, the previous lack and the long, long road I had to take to get back what was hidden from me for so long has made me very mindful of the memories I make now. It has made me very distrustful of my mind to be able to capture the nuances and detail that I absolutely require of my memories now. And so I document, and record, and photograph as much as I can.
I have a need to make something tangible out of the intangible. It frustrates me, in the medium I have available to me, that I can't capture things to an absolutely perfect degree. There are details and nuances that will be forever lost, no matter how hard I search in my mind for the perfect turn of phrase, no matter how many pictures I take.
See, that up there? Like now, right now. I'm not saying any of this right.
There is so much, there is so little time. The richer life gets - and it continues to get better, every day - the more futile I feel my attempts are at capturing how wonderful it all is. The details of the living I've done are sometimes hazy - I'm determined to experience every minute of the life I have yet to live so hard and so much that it will be branded in my mind. It will never be lost to me again.
I will remember. More, I will re-experience.
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