I believe the term selective amnesia, only because I’m a living proof of it. Everybody experiences trauma and we have no right to tell how small or difficult it is because each of us is carrying a load as heavy as everybody else’s load. Like an ant carrying a big piece of rice, nothing for us, heavy for them. Amazing isn’t it? How an ant can carry something hundred times its weight? Have you tried carrying a car lately?
The point I’m just trying to make is that I’ve been through a rough period of my life before, and it may seem childish now– like an intense dream you can vaguely remember upon waking up only with drumming of your heart as a proof — but I was sure it was really something back then. But why have I forgotten how it felt?
Okay, let me begin from the top.
I heard a name.
A name not so long ago dragged me to hell and back. But I wasn’t able to recognize its relevance until for about 5 seconds, which made me smile. How cool was it to remember something you never thought existed.
No, really, think about it. It’s like remembering a person you’ve never met before.
It’s because of that fateful day that I encased them all and dropped them in the sea of my unconscious mind. That day I prayed to forget. And god, did I forget.
And now going back, it’s like a dream. I know how painful it was, but now only in my imagination. And when I had forgotten the bad, I had also forgotten the good. I threw pain away, I threw love away.
I forgot all the good times. What puppy names did we call each other? Did we have a favorite song? How did our story went? What was her favorite color? It’s all such a blur to me now. I try to remember bits and pieces so trivial, wondering if I’m just making them up. Sometimes, I try myself, wondering if it would all go rushing back to me. like opening a shut door under the sea. And now that I think of it, it’s not like that.
The truth is, it’s like throwing away a box of old belongings on a cliff. You can fish for them, one by one, and you’d remember what it was about, but the ones left at the bottom of the pit, would stay there, lying motionless.
I’ve forgotten the bad but I am constantly fishing for the good ones I’ve thrown away with it.
I had loved making letters once, I can make a sweet note out of a receipt. I had loved making scrap books, collecting everything and anything worth remembering. I was overflowing with sweet ideas once, I don’t run out of things to do. Now I’m re-learning these things like an awaken comatose patient re-learning how to walk.
And that name. That name. I shouldn’t have fished for that name.