Memory has always been my nemesis.
My perception of my childhood memory is like living in a house surrounded by monkeys. The moment you start to think something good about that house, you remember one dangerous encounter with that big red-faced monkey! Suddenly you are 6 again, being chased, alone and scared.
You don’t want to go back to that house again.
I envy those with good childhood memories. I hear these lucky people reminisce about the good old days, about how they would always want to relive their childhood. I sit there tasting the bitterness of relationships, the swelling of my cheek my childhood brings me.
I wonder how they hate today. I wonder how they are not scared of being tiny again, when someone else decides how your day went.
How are they not worried about whether they will be served a slap or food for dinner. Also, whether they miss the game night at their friend’s place, or only remember the weird brother who tried to touch you inappropriately when nobody was watching.
Nobody would believe that story, especially because I haven’t told anyone. I don’t want to be held responsible for my 6-year-old self now, you see. I am not sure if I somehow invited it with my flat child body wearing shorts and a T-shirt.
I was ugly according to my family.
We don’t talk about that memory ever, yet it pops up every time I see a child playing with an adult. It must be my brain’s fault, tainting anything good it sees.
I listen to those with beautiful memories with wondrous eyes, just like a child thinks about unicorns. Yet it is very rare for me to encounter those who want to forget as much as I want to. We still remember everything too vividly. It doesn’t seem like something that happened a long time ago.
The people in my memory may not exist anymore, maybe not even on this Earth or just not in my life anymore, but I have to live with those faces till death. I remember their eye color and even their gait, yet I am uninterested in learning new faces now.
What if I would have to strive to forget them too?
The burden of memory, especially the bad ones, is immense. You are combing your hair and bam! You remember how your grandmother oiled your hair when you were young. There is a smile erupting at the thought of those fingers on your scalp. And then suddenly this memory becomes a ghost, and you remember how your hair was pulled when you made the tiny mistake of rubbing shoe polish on the floor. Maybe the oil strengthened the hair and the spirit too.
Today I don’t let anyone control what I paint with my shoe polish.
Eventually, I started taking matters into my own hands. I made my money and made new good memories the first chance I got.
The moment I learnt I am not automatically blessed with good ones, neither memories nor people, I decided to find new people for my new and better past.
I was born cursed, but I can bless myself too.
When I embarked on my journey of owning my life, I was made to feel ashamed for those attempts. But I have tried to live because I have stopped trusting anyone else, especially time. I’m scared of giving that control to anyone now.
I find my people and my resources. My time has to keep up with me. I will not let them disappoint me again.
I only want to indulge in good and meaningful moments, making memories with only those who are worthy of it. I want to invest in memories for my old age.
I want, in my final moments, when the movie of my life plays in my head, no matter how painful the start is, for my final memories to be full of love and warmth.
I may be the weak child, but I shall not remain so.
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