It wasn't until I started writing that I started to feel okay with my thoughts. Writing has given me an outlet, a place where it wouldn't matter if someone never agreed with me, because there is probably someone out there who does, equally. It wasn't until I started writing, on and off blog, that I started to figure myself out. Putting feelings on 'paper' and letting them out has opened my eyes to a world of psychology I never knew was out there, and I never knew was okay to find.
Recently, I have been talking to a wonderful woman about a topic that is growing dear to me, memory.
The funny thing about memory is that it is always a mystery. Memory is all about perspective- which in my unprofessional opinion is not really arguable. Two people may be in the same place at the same time and remember it completely different, and they may not. The human brain is a wonderful thing, it fills in missing spots, and it works with our emotions, to twist memory to our liking. Our brains release different memories from childhood as we're ready to process them, and handle them. The slightest detail can be off, the slightest detail can change it all.
The craziest part about this is that memory is all about perspective.
How we think something went. How I, or you, remember it. But- neither is honest-not completely.
Ever since I started writing, I also started talking. When it began, I wanted to remember my childhood, simply because I don't. Good, bad, ugly- I don't remember. A smell, a taste, a picture can trigger a memory. Memories I didn't have, until I started writing.
When we grow up we think that we can finally be okay with the past. We can finally move on. We can finally grow up and be the adults we set out to be without a cloud of baggage over our head. Memories are the baggage we seem to never get away from- and when we turn 18, or 21, or 25- it's suppose to be snapped away- and replaced with resolution.
I don't know about you, but I thought I'd be further ahead than I am, and I certainly did not have an easy way to sort it all out. My biggest problem is that one word I've been using- perspective.
You see, this cloud of baggage has been hanging over my head for quite some time, but just today I realized that it isn't even mine. It belongs to memory. Ones which may be true, ones which may not be. I can't really remember. Some memories are things people have told me- that I believed, and some possibly happened.
Even though I'll truly never know what is real, and what never happened, I really wish I could.
A wise woman once said that our bodies protect us by not remembering until our brain thinks we can handle it. Going back and sorting through our memory is our adult self finally being able to save our child self. I for one, would like to stick up for that little girl- I'd like to remember her...
So here, I'll make her a promise-- a promise to that 2 year old girl who drank her first beer. The 9 year old girl in the car with a suicidal driver. The 13 year old girl in her dad's roomate's room. The 16 year old at her boyfriends funeral. Let go of the breath you've been holding- I will come back for you- as soon as I can remember.
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