THERE YOU ARE

I actually don’t remember much of who I was.

It wasn’t an intentional oversight. Gradually forgetting memories, that’s normal; your brain reaches capacity at some point, and mine no longer had need for the pattern of the colorful bowl of cereal I had last week, or the contents of the essay I wrote in seventh grade, so it dumped it all down the drain- in the process, I think it dashed away a significant portion of my memory.

Gradation gives you a chance to prioritize what sticks out to you the most, irregardless of meaning; it gives you the option to pick and choose between what you want to reminisce about someday. It was like a trance broke. I simply woke up one day and found I couldn’t remember the last thirteen years that happened to me.

That was also the day I realized what I looked like. I don’t have any memories of my face before that day, either. I was never one to look in the mirror for long; being unoccupied with my appearance, the closest I ever got was staring at my mouth while I brushed my teeth to make sure I was thorough. I have an excellent memory of my mouth.

I remember it vividly; I glanced up after rinsing my mouth, and then I stared. “Oh,” I thought. “That’s what I look like.” I can recall it from a third person perspective, as if I were a third observer in that bathroom. I hadn’t, before that day, ever remembered if I knew my own face. I knew it in a vague sense; I could pick out individual features, and knew the rough tone of my skin, but altogether was an unfamiliar sight for me. That was the day I gained awareness for the second time; before that, I must have been living on autopilot. I simply don’t remember.

I didn’t think much of it then, but it became a more pressing feeling over time. I’d state it as a joke, then as a concern, then as a realization. It started with the death of my friend. We’d gone to school for years together, and being that we lived close-by, I’d gone over to her house a few times. To my knowledge, it’d only been three.

A few months after she was gone, I went to search for her name, and came across a memorial page for her. Different from the obituary, it featured about two pages of pictures housed on a website, a collection of her twenty years of life. I lingered on each one with interest, having identified a few of them on account of growing up together, even as far as being in a few. These events I were familiar with, and it wasn’t until I scrolled across one image that I was given pause.

That was a picture of her family and I, standing posed in front of a new statue at the city park. I don’t remember this, I remember thinking. When did this happen?

I only knew when it happened thanks to the caption informing the reader that it was 2011, but that was it. That one image opened a hole in my mind and made my heart thrum with paranoia. I don’t remember that image. I don’t remember that day.

It bothered me that there were more than likely more things like this surrounding my childhood that I didn’t know about, some memories that were only recalled by third-parties, now. We aren’t meant to remember every waking moment of our lives, but I never realized how much it would distress me to fully realize that I have giant gaps in my memories.

It happened again most recently, when my brother started talking about our shared childhood experiences. Never before had we chatted about that aspect of our lives, the one with a shared parent, and without his prompting, it most likely would have never occurred. Not because it was unwanted, but because I would have nothing to contribute; all I had to offer were feelings.

I knew instances affected me during my teenaged years, and for me, that was enough. I always figured memories were nothing more than feelings, the only thing that remains long after any image stays preserved in your mind, but it wasn’t until that moment that I was filled with great frustration; I had all these feelings that I could no longer source the origin of. I felt a trembling deep in my chest, a clenching feeling that’s much more deep-set than where things usually bother me. It’s an inward rage I’d never felt before; for the first time in a long time, I’m unable to identify that feeling. I forgot it all.

Only the worst moments seem to stick out with vivid clarity, as much clarity as a hazed recollection can bring. That’s how it always happens: a negative is sure to off-set a positive in most circumstances; heaven knows why the brain was formed that way.

How much of you stems from what you can’t remember? Are we not a series of memories, but a series of impressions? Whatever hands that shaped you, whatever mold that formed you, the form is still there, even if the container has gone away.

I wonder how many more moments I had like these stored away in my memories. What did she think of me? Did she see me as a good friend? I never got to know. I saw myself as terrible, even though there’s a deeper part of me that knows that isn’t true: the worst parts of you will always stick out if being kind is second nature, because you want to ensure you never replicate the worst sides of you again. There’s a part of me that’s been swept away, held under lock-and-key by the surface-level part of me. There’s a someone else in there.

I believe that’s what happens when your life “flashes before your eyes.” All at once, your brain fires off everything and every sight you’ve ever saw, every taste to ever touch your tongue, every sentence you’ve ever said. Whatever it’s marked off, it all comes rushing to you back at once, wholly and vividly and readily yours. Ah, of course, you’re feeling. How could I ever forget that was there?