I have a bad memory.
Well, that’s not completely right.
I have a bad memory when it comes to personal experiences. I’m good at remembering facts, at remembering books and stories. But I can’t remember personal experiences.
I can tell you the plot of books I read when I was a child. But I can’t tell you about my friends when I was a child.
I can remember the salient points of school lessons from back then. I couldn’t tell you much of what happened at home, save those things that I’ve been reminded about by photos or family members.
There’s the sneaking suspicion that those memories are more imaginings based on the insistence of others that that’s what happened rather than my brain co-operating.
I suppose that’s part of why I began to journal. Forgetting the people and experiences that have made up my past makes me anxious.
There’s a fear in the back of my mind that I’ll forget why I am the way I am – that I’ll forget the reasons behind my actions and quirks, that I’ll dismiss something which used to be significant.
Some tiny part of me is happier this way. Happier to have dulled all the things that aren’t so nice. Things that would most likely hurt to remember.
I can’t decide if I’m poorer or richer without those memories. I suspect it’s a mixture of both.