(story by the amazing Mir of Woulda Coulda Shoulda)
I used to spend a month at sleep-away camp, every summer. I looked forward to it all year long; whatever social awkwardness I experienced in my "regular" life (hint: a lot), somehow at camp it was easier to be a better, cooler, hipper version of myself. No one there would know about the time my pants split during gym in second grade (on a day when I hadn't bothered to wear underwear), or the time I went to school sick and barfed all over the stairs. Camp was a chance to start over every year, be someone else for a little while, stay up late and read by flashlight and swim every day.
The first year I was given a camera to take with me, I was elated. My very own camera! I don't remember what it was, exactly, but it was one of those rectangle 110s. I took it—along with two rolls of film—off to camp with me that year. I took pictures of all sorts of things, and about a week after my return, I had the film developed. Of the 48 pictures I'd shot, there were maybe six pictures that were actually of friends of mine and somewhat in focus.
"Write their names, and camp, and the date on the back," my mother suggested. "That way you'll always know when you took your pictures."
I thought her suggestion was ridiculous. How would I ever forget where it was (camp) or who they were (only my best friends in the whole world) or when I took them (just a few weeks before)? Maybe she was old and forgetful, but I wouldn't need any reminders. Pffft.
You know how this story goes, right? By the time I left for college, I sorted through the detritus of my childhood room and came across envelope after envelope of pictures from various times and places. And most of them I could barely remember who I was looking at, or why. I'm sure I never mentioned this to my mother, lest she give me a (well-deserved) "I told you so" about it. This pattern repeated with each move throughout college, grad school, and even into my early adult life: I'd sift through my belongings, come across old pictures of people I no longer knew, and wondered how in the world I'd once felt so connected to people who were now strangers to me.
Film gave way to digital photography, of course, and I loved saving the expense of developing my crummy pictures, and also the ability to organize photos on the computer and make notes so that I would have more information when I might have forgotten a particular occasion. Every now and then I look back on a photo, now, and I have notes telling me when/where but the photo still means nothing to me. I simply don't remember.
One of the things I love about blogging, of course, is that it gives me a record of the mundane and important alike, and years later I can revisit these events (if I choose) and the words poke into my brain and awaken dormant memories. Now I can remember even the things I thought I'd forgotten. It helps me hold onto those pieces of life that tend to just fade away over time.
On the other hand, sometimes the memories that slip away or soften are the ones I'd rather not have. Time has a way of smoothing over rough edges, and sometimes that's a good thing. Sometimes looking at a picture and having no idea who it features or where is was means I also don't remember a scathing comment or how hard a particular loss was. I'm now supposedly about halfway through my life, and while it feels like I spent a lot of it clutching at things I was determined to remember, I may just be reaching a place of peace with a bit of judicious forgetting. Maybe it's better when we don't hold on to everything.
What do you think? Remember or forget? Which one makes you feel better? I used to know, but nowadays I'm not so sure.
(Read more Mir here. You'll be glad you did.)
I remember almost nothing from when I was 7 – 12. I’m reasonably sure that’s not a good thing and that those aren’t good memories I’ve lost.
I don’t think we need to hold on to everything, I just wish I could choose what I let go of.
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That’s hard. I have a couple of blank periods in my memory as well, though I think I’ve come to where I’m okay without remembering. Here’s to finding peace.
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Try as I might, I literally cannot remember ANYTHING from before I started kindergarten. I look at pictures and am amazed that I actually existed. I have no memory of my sisters (both of whom are older than me by 3 and 6 years). I made a comment that I wish we’d spent more time together as children. My sisters were incredulous. There are photos that show the three of us were inseparable. I don’t remember. I remember my first day of kindergarten and virtually everything since. I can look at nearly any photo from high school and know the person’s name, where we were, what month it was. It’s that detailed. Sure, there are things in life I wish I could forget. But those early memories? Those are ones I wish I had (but then, at the same time, figure there’s a reason I can’t recall ANYTHING from that period with a memory as clear as it is after age 5 or 6, there has to be a reason why any memory before then is nonexistent).
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I have one of those freakish memories. The type where I can look at a calendar see a date and tell you what happened. I have memories from before I was two. Yes. Really. I only know these are MY memories and not some conjured images based on stories told to me are because of the perspective. I have a memory of holding and being surrounded by what must be more than three dozen kittens. My mom assures me that there were only three kittens.
When I was 32 I began having some health issues that effected my memory. The drugs to address said issues do NOT make this memory issue better. Now, what used to be an almost photographic memory is spotty. I imagine, having lived with people who can’t remember ANYTHING, that my memory is more average now, but still. I know what I had. I know what I’ve lost and I miss it.
I still have all those memories from the past, but the last three years…If it wasn’t major? I probably don’t remember it exactly.
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Oy, Tenessa, that must be hard. My memory isn’t that detailed, but it is better than most people’s. It’s an important part of who I am. I hope your health gets better.
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I’m sorry to hear this, Tenessa. It must feel like losing a superpower! I hope things improve.
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There’s that message on many sundials: “I count only the sunny hours”. I suppose my philosophy is much the same, as I only want to retain either the good memories, or the good feelings associated with good memories.
Bad experiences, however, can teach great lessons. I’m happy to hang on to the lessons learned, but don’t want the detail memory. If I’m in a situation where I’m trying to encourage someone who’s going through the same type of thing, I trust enough of the memory will come back for me to be able to relate. I then want it to crawl back in to the dark where it belongs.
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Love the idea of bad memories “crawling back into the dark where they belong.” Perfect!
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I like to remember, especially to remember the structure (that something happened before something else did, or that the older kid was 7, not 10 when something happened, that the girl grew 10 inches since Dec 09, that the first trip trip to Italy was in 00, . . . .). So, I love the blog as a record, as well as date stamped photographs and computer files.
But, I do sometimes feel that the blog fixes narratives about events, rather than the events themselves into memory, that by the act of writing, we create a new reality that becomes the one we remember. I worry about this, but my need to record is greater than my worry about reality distortion. Also, though the blog might distort the emotion and ambiance of a memory, I try hard to make sure that the facts are correct.
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I think this is a really interesting point. We could get all metaphysical here about reality always being only our perception, I guess, but you’re right that fixing an event in time via narration must by definition change it somewhat. I guess what I like about that is the ability to focus on the feelings rather than than the events themselves.
But it’s given me something to chew on: How much of what’s on my blog—and the memories that go with it—are changed simply because I blogged about it?
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I recently read that every time we recall a memory, that memory alters… so just the act of remembering changes our memories. I agree that constructing a narrative also changes memories… but since we’re unconsciously changing them anyway by recalling them, this doesn’t worry me too much. I think the important thing is to stay true to the big picture, and not worry if some of the details are a bit off.
I also read that our brains are hardwired to forget, in order get over traumas… i.e., not forget the lesson, but the pain that accompanied the learning of that lesson.
Which makes me feel better about my own inability to accurately recount the details of who said what or who did what. For example, there’s a girl who hurt me enormously once… I can’t now tell you exactly what happened, but I do know I don’t ever want to be friends with her again. And I prefer this – do I really need to relive all that pain every time I think of her? Don’t ask me for gossip though!!
My issue is more with memory failings that affect my day to day life. Like where I put the keys, for example.
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I think the reason kids’ memories before age six are virtually non-existent is so that, as parents, we have a few years in which to practice. I’m relieved that my kids don’t remember the time I screamed at them and locked myself in the office while they banged on the door. The dents in the door remind me, but no one else remembers. I’m ok with that!
Me, I have such a lousy memory that I’ve just had to come to terms with it. I may have experienced something just a year ago, and remember nothing. If I ever develop Alzheimer’s no one will notice. They’re used to my bad memory too.
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My kids already say “early onset Alzheimers!” to each other (referencing me) all the time. Heh.
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My memory is definitely getting worse and worse the older I get. Not a good thing since I’ve started taking college courses again (Why??? Good question!) Up next??? Algebra! I have NO fear of learning it, but I am a nervous wreck about if I’m actually going to REMEMBER it between the time I learn it and the time for the mid-term/final!
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Like Tenessa, I used to have a photographic memory. I could see what happened on any particular day, like a film running backwards. I could see pages of books I’d read. When I had that ability, I considered it a curse, because I couldn’t forget and that sometimes overwhelmed me.
Now, because of age and stress and just plain overload, the ol’ brain no longer has that talent. Losing it is a source of palpable grief. Like Tenessa, I know what I had, I know what I lost, and I miss it.
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I’m sorry, Leanne.
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Funny thing this memory stuff. I find my long term is much better than my short term as I age and that those long term memories (besides the ones where I remember a week after going to the grocery that we need sugar) all seem a little softer focus. I like that.
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Forget, forget, forget. I have found freedom in my adult life, primarily by separating from and forgetting about my childhood. I remember enough, but it is a distant memory and not at all related to who I am today. If I didn’t have the memories I’ve kept, it would be hard to believe it was the same person. And it’s not that my life was a lifetime movie, it was just not healthy or fun.
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I get where you’re coming from, totally. I guess my not-so-great memories, for me, serve to highlight how far I’ve come. I can remind myself that the thing in front of me may seem hard, but look at what I’ve already made it through, etc.
Still, I sometimes give my past an extra shove just for good measure. I get it.
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According to my husband, we once saw Jerry Seinfeld live on stage. Not only don’t I remember the show, I don’t remember getting the tickets, being excited for the show, planning childcare or an outfit. I have no memory of this (probably particularly exciting) night out. He can’t believe that I can forget the whole experience. He is also surprised when I forget what I was saying half way through a sentence though.
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