My oldest daughter has a special talent. She can recall any line from any movie she's ever seen. I don't know how she inherited this gift, since Dave doesn't even really watch movies (sitting still is not something he does well) and I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday. So this ability of hers, this power to recall even the most insignificant detail, is, to me, quite amazing.
Despite my lack of talent in this area, I have memories I would give anything to forget. And, believe me, I have tried. For years I have pushed them away, buried them deep, only to have them resurface.
Why is that? Why can I not remember what I wore two days ago, but can't forget something that happened over thirty years ago? Perhaps I buried them too deeply. Perhaps it's my obsessive personality that won't let them go. Whatever the reason, they are still with me. With me during the day and with me in my dreams. And though some of the images have faded, some of the lines have blurred, unlike yesterday's news, they won't completely fade away. Because memories are powerful. And they have a way of taking hold.
I'm sure there is a psychological name for this, some Freudian something or other. But my Psych 101 class was a LONG time ago and asking an expert with a PhD after their name has, to this point, never been something I felt comfortable doing. So, instead, I seek understanding through my writing.
In doing so, however, I realize that looking at one's past through a self-directed lens doesn't allow us to see the complete picture. Memories can be very one-sided. "Broken" is a perfect example. This story is told completely from the child's point-of-view. But, does this one-sidedness make the memory any less real? Any less true? I'm sure, if asked, the parents in this story would probably (both) provide very different accounts of what happened that day. And both of them would be right.
We all want to believe that our memories, our histories, are told accurately, truthfully. Yet I also believe that parents and their children can have very different versions of the same truth. So whose version is right?
Despite my lack of talent in this area, I have memories I would give anything to forget. And, believe me, I have tried. For years I have pushed them away, buried them deep, only to have them resurface.
Why is that? Why can I not remember what I wore two days ago, but can't forget something that happened over thirty years ago? Perhaps I buried them too deeply. Perhaps it's my obsessive personality that won't let them go. Whatever the reason, they are still with me. With me during the day and with me in my dreams. And though some of the images have faded, some of the lines have blurred, unlike yesterday's news, they won't completely fade away. Because memories are powerful. And they have a way of taking hold.
I'm sure there is a psychological name for this, some Freudian something or other. But my Psych 101 class was a LONG time ago and asking an expert with a PhD after their name has, to this point, never been something I felt comfortable doing. So, instead, I seek understanding through my writing.
In doing so, however, I realize that looking at one's past through a self-directed lens doesn't allow us to see the complete picture. Memories can be very one-sided. "Broken" is a perfect example. This story is told completely from the child's point-of-view. But, does this one-sidedness make the memory any less real? Any less true? I'm sure, if asked, the parents in this story would probably (both) provide very different accounts of what happened that day. And both of them would be right.
We all want to believe that our memories, our histories, are told accurately, truthfully. Yet I also believe that parents and their children can have very different versions of the same truth. So whose version is right?
As children, it's very difficult to see past the noses on our own faces and understand how someone else is feeling. We simply aren't capable of that. We see events only as they relate to ourselves. Maybe the mother in "Broken" really did need to get away from her family. Maybe the weight of marriage and motherhood was simply too much for her. A twelve-year-old would never understand this. But that doesn't mean she wasn't right to feel hurt, angry. Nor does it mean that as she moves into adulthood, living with these memories will become any less difficult. If it did, there would be a lot of therapists looking for work.
Maybe, as adults, we shouldn't try so hard to forget. Maybe we should use our past, our memories, as tools to learn from. I know that my memories have influenced my life. They have shown me how not to parent. How not to communicate. How not to treat my body, my spirit. Maybe that's why they are still with me. Not to haunt me. But to serve as a reminder. To teach me. To guide me.
Maybe, as adults, we shouldn't try so hard to forget. Maybe we should use our past, our memories, as tools to learn from. I know that my memories have influenced my life. They have shown me how not to parent. How not to communicate. How not to treat my body, my spirit. Maybe that's why they are still with me. Not to haunt me. But to serve as a reminder. To teach me. To guide me.
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