Tag: About the Self

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 first 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?

Recently, suddenly, and radically, my face underwent a series of very sudden changes.

It’s not completely unexpected. I’m still at the age where my body’s squeezing out the last of the changes before I exit early adulthood, but I can usually pick out exactly what’s shifted. Last time it was my eyebrows, the time before that, I gained an inch of height, and before that, my hips got bigger…now though, I’m not really sure what changed.

At first, I thought it was because I’d started forgetting what I look like barefaced. I’ve taken to wearing makeup lately, which I’m having much fun with, and have even gotten around to regularly eradicating any traces of dark circles. Now I actually look sleep abundant, for a change, and my face overall looks brighter- but no, that’s not it, either. Even once I readjusted to what I look like, there’s still something there that wasn’t there before.

It made me quirk an eyebrow, because it must’ve been a sudden change that happened overnight; something that caught me while I wasn’t looking. Then I compounded on it recently by changing how I posture my tongue. I’ve always been one to hang my mouth open, even though I’m not a mouth breather, because I’ll be talking to myself under my breath so much I sometimes forget I have to close my mouth afterwards. Then I’ll get distracted by more writing, and keep my mouth spaced at the ready in case I have more I want to mumble. As a result, my jaw’s always sort of been propped open, and my tongue sort of rams into my overbite instead of sitting flush up against the roof of my mouth correctly. It gets worse when I sleep- my neck bends all the way backwards. Subsequently, my mouth is open wide.

So I taped my mouth shut. A few days prior, I was joking that I needed to do that, so imagine my surprise when I stumbled across a box of the stuff for $5. I actually thought it was some stupid vanity thing when I picked it up, already being a little familiar with the trend going around, but imagine my surprise when I read the box and it said that it could help with deeper sleep and fixing your tongue posture. Well, shucks, I’m sold! We dropped it in the basket and went on our merry way. I used it for the first time that night.

About three weeks later, here we are. That thing wasn’t kidding! Man, I get the best sleep of my life with that stuff. I’ve already been a vivid dreamer, but this stuff’s got me sleeping a solid several hours. I don’t even wake up to pee. THAT’S a real knock-out, and apparently the kind you can get on the shelves!

Anyway, I was expecting to at least fix the alignment issues in my tongue and neck, but wowzers man, this stuff changed my whole face up. Two days later, and after briefly giving myself an adhesive burn thanks to accidentally getting my lips wet while wearing the tape, it actually changed how I look. The lower half of my face used to be a little on the long side, kind of like a mule, but now it’s…

What exactly? That’s really what bugs me the most- exactly what changed? You already know I’m capable and find great enjoying in spotting the difference, which is why this stumps me so. My face looks better as a whole, less recessed into my skull, but it’s hard to really tell what it changed. I’ve been staring in the mirror lately to figure it out, but no dice, so far. It made my lips fuller, I think, and my nasal bridge isn’t so flat anymore. What startled me more was that it didn’t happen gradually. The change occurred overnight.

Eight hours of also having my tongue set in the correct place pretty much permanently fixed that problem, as well. Now it’s in the correct place even while I’m awake, which I’m sure only aides and retains the adjustments it’s made.

I’m certainly going to keep using it. Not just for aesthetic purposes, of course- I’m vain enough to admit that I’m a big fan of those changes, too, but I’m really excited that my mouth is no longer propped open when I fall asleep. Gone be the days I wake up with dehydrated incisors and a parched tongue. I’ll have record posture in no time.

Why is everything near me developing holes lately? It’s not just thanks to the cheapened quality of everything, but the fact that it happened all at the same time. My sleeve, my shoes, my skirt, my jacket pocket, new. Everything, for some reason or another, has a hole, and they all started when I left away from home.

I want to make this something metaphorical, but truly, I haven’t the slightest idea what it means. It could be that my life is coming apart at the seams and restitching itself into something new, but even that seems flimsy at best, because my life feels great. All I’m shocked by is that everything decided to unravel by the seams the second I stepped away from my sewing kit, now 4,000 miles away from me.

I’ve never decorated my walls before. That’s both a truth and a lie; meaning, I’ve never decorated them in any meaningful way; it’s always been one sad little poster, one piece of loose leaf tacked to the wall. Never have there been any pictures, any artworks, any evidence of my being there. Every single wall I’ve ever owned has been bare.

It harkens back to my childhood. We could never be satisfied with just one house for a very, very long time; in fact, the longest we’ve ever been in any residence was two years. There’s always some deeper issue that makes settling down there in the long-term impossible; but also, as renters, our desires were never to stay in one place. Home can be anywhere and not stuck between four walls, so we’d always go leaping between them.

Therefore, the walls never had a chance to accumulate anything of value. Most times, I never had my own room, but when I did, I knew there was no point in hanging anything up; in a year’s time, everything would end up coming down anyway.

Even when I have the chance to make my spaces mine, there’s still that age-old habit that lingers inside me that can’t be bothered to claim them if I know I’ll only be leaving. I’ll decorate my desk, and lay out my wardrobe, and even carefully arrange the items on my nightstand, but never does anything go up on the walls.

What’s more ironic is that it’s never out of lacking; I’ve collected wall art and prints over the years. I picked out a framed design to hang up on the wall one day. I even own a clock I plan to put in my kitchen. They’ve been blanketed with a layer of dust while they’re tucked away in my life worth’s of closeted storage bins.

Eventually the day will come when I acquire a place of my own, and I’ll have to wipe everything down with rubbing alcohol and clean all the floors. Then I’ll start moving the furniture in and lay out the covers and floral sheets on my bed in a very deliberate manner. I’ll decorate my desk, and place my plants on the window sill, and hopefully, by then, I’ll realize that I can decorate my walls.