We can all agree there are things we wish to forget. There are also things we forget without wishing. I am certain I’m not the only person who isn’t a stranger to forgetting. No matter if it’s taking out dinner every morning or a big event that took place in the past. Everyone seems to remember it but you. And guess what? You were sober at the event.
There was an article or show about the brain being a sorting factory. What your brain perceives as unimportant is stored in the short-term memory section. The section housing the long-term memory is for the experiences we consider important.
But what of those life-altering events? One would think those memories would be in the long-term section. Many people cannot recall traumatic episodes from their past. Some people think of those circumstances but only portions are exact. Then there are few who remember what transpired. Those stored away events results from the brain protecting its host. Just how we have cells to fight viruses and bacteria, our brain fights against what it believes is too much for us to handle.
So, I ask myself. Could my brain have hidden something traumatic from me? Something from the past? Years ago, when blogging crossed my mind, I contemplated what to write. I wanted to write on something that would help me. And from there, I was reminded of the diaries I had packed away. Writing on snippets from my diaries and asking others about their outlook or experience. So, I took them out and read the first one. I found news that disturbed and caused me to think more about my past.
I was around 13 years old. In the first two months in my diary, there was a man I’d given an alias. He didn’t appear in too many of those earlier pages, but when he did, I always called him by another name. I knew exactly who it was and remembered I had given him an alias in case someone in my family found my diary.
What disturbed me was reading about the day he put his hands on me. I didn’t explain what took place. Instead, I wrote I hoped what transpired was a dream and drew a picture of a crying eye.
When I read those pages a few years ago, I felt what it meant. It took me back to that day, and it reminded me of what took place. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I changed his name months before I wrote about him first touching me.
I searched for other diaries, believing I’d misplaced one. There weren’t any. I tried creating a timeline in my head of when and where we met him. How long after did he come to our house? I tried remembering if we were ever alone. But I couldn’t. There were two occasions and two different locations I remembered seeing him. Both in public places. Surprisingly, I don’t recall many other times he’d come around. Still, I couldn’t remember if anything had taken place at all.
Years later, I still think about it. What if something happened and my brain decided it was in my best interest for me to forget? If that’s the case, could there be other traumatic events in my life I can’t remember? Why was that particular memory taken away and not the others? Who would I be now? How would I be today?
I have faced the fact that I will never know for sure if something happened. Maybe it’s for the best. Nevertheless, all is not lost. After finding out this possible missing memory, I’ve been able to incorporate this aesthetic into my writing. Memory loss is a theme I’m exploring while working on Before I Say My Vows. And I look forward to finding out if, unlike me, the main character will find out what happened to her.
