Memories

                What are memories? Little thoughts fluttering around in your mind, reminding you of things that happened in the past; be it mistakes you had made, or accomplishments from your glory days. Every day that passes becomes a new memory; how do our minds store thousands and millions of such memories? Surely we are bound to forget some, or even most of the things that happened – how can one store every single memory for years and decades? Based on my memory alone, I cannot even recall what I had for dinner last week. I have seen on a television show that our thoughts, knowledge, memories, etc. are all filed neatly in our head. Imagine them arranged by date, in metal drawers, just like in a secretary’s filing room. If it were true what they said, that people’s minds work that way, I must be one-of-a-kind. My memories are constantly scattered everywhere in my brain – messy, quite like my bedroom. That is, if they are even in my brain at all.

                That does not mean I have completely no clue about my memories from the past, though; when I was nine, I read a book about a girl and her best friend who stored bits and pieces of their lives in a metal tin and buried it in their backyards. Time capsule, they called it. I believe my eyes must have lit up very brightly when I discovered this idea of a “time capsule” – I fell in love with the thought that I could keep track of every single memory and never forget my past, forever.

                And so it began – I wrote down every little detail about anything and everything, 365 days a year without fail. Do not get me wrong, it was not like a keeping a diary, writing thoughts and feelings; I was keeping track of my life. Desperately clinging on to every passing moment. It was every single detail, important or not, exactly how it happened; that was what I kept in my time capsule. Over the years, I had filled hundreds and hundreds of time capsules! I occupied my days taking down every detail, trying to be sure not to miss a single moment. Teachers would catch me writing notes in class for the capsule and they would tell me off, but they never understood how much it meant to me, recording with pen and paper what every moment was like.

                You see, when I was eight, I had a brain injury that affected my memory severely. It was as if I had no space in my mind for memories; remember those filing cabinets I talked about? In my mind, there was nothing to file anyway. My memory span was about 48 hours at maximum, the doctors said. Every two days or so, my parents would have to reintroduce themselves to me and tell me what my life was like. If I was lucky, I would be able to remember bits and pieces here and there. It must have been frustrating for them, I can imagine… but for me, it was just confusing – it was not like I would remember any of it anyway. Not for more than 48 hours, I guess. But like I said, things changed when I was nine; starting that time capsule gave me a chance to live… to remember… to some extent, at least. I started the time capsule for the fun of it, but if not for the time capsule, I would not only have empty filing cabinets; I would have an empty life.

                The time capsule idea did not solve my memory problems; but it helped. Thanks to those time capsules, I know what happened on the day I quit school because it was too tough for me; what the sky was like on the day Drew proposed, and how I found out I was pregnant with my baby girl (that must have been horrendous for Drew, having to explain to his confused wife that she was pregnant with a baby, fathered by a stranger who was supposedly her husband, and that it was actually fantastic news!). But those memories… do they belong to me? If they do belong to anyone, it would be to yesterday-me, or me from last week, last month, three years ago. Over time, reading through all the previous notes in time capsules would help me “remember” – if you would call it that. In the beginning, it was confusing and ridiculous; but in my notes I always explained my situation and reminded myself the importance of the time capsule and what to do with it. It got easier, I suppose; as if my mind was getting accustomed to re-learning my past, or shall I say, my whole life, every other day… but those notes. It felt like I was just reading a storybook, you know? How would I know if I really did all those things… and how would I know if my tomorrow-self would believe in this insane explanation for the life I lead, and all the stories from my past? Hopefully, she would follow the instructions on my notes, understand, accept my condition, and carry on with the capsule – carry on with a life that doesn’t really belong to me anyway, but seeming belongs to thousands of variations of myself; every day, a different me.

                Today, I am writing this for the capsule, sitting at my husband’s grave. According to a note I had written before my most recent memory loss, he passed away only weeks ago. Had I loved him very much? Was I even able to love him when I had to spend most of my time rediscovering myself? Well, the notes did say that he had helped with the capsules and knew how to deal with it. But how can he deal with me being like this? How can he love me, a woman who can’t even recognize him, until she reads a letter from her past self, assuring her that he is her husband? Wouldn’t my daughter hate having a mother like me? How could I have carried out my motherly duties with such a situation? I am an extremely lucky woman to have even been able to start a family of my own, I suppose; “we” all are… yesterday-me, today-me, tomorrow-me.

                Sixty years, this has been going on; how long more can it continue? If tomorrow-me decides not to believe in this crazy mess, then my life will be gone. Empty filing cabinets. Empty life. Will I get tired of this? I guess that is one good thing about my situation… I will never get sick of this – because every other day is like a rebirth for me. A new life; a fresh start. Perhaps this is God’s way of keeping things interesting for me. Why dwell upon the past all your life, when you can start-over and live a “new life” three times a week, right?

                Until the next two days, that is all for now. To my future self who is reading this: I know, it seems pretty insane to me too.

(19/8/2013)