Trying to keep writing even when I think I have nothing to say. I’m still unpacking the boxes I moved into my apartment three weeks ago, and I’m just trying to get willing enough to get rid of some stuff. It’s so hard. I’m a pack rat. A hoarder. A storer. A keeper. An archivist.
I know there’s some fear-based shit underneath it all, and some natural tendency to collect, keep history, want to keep the record. Part of it stems from the fact that I have a faulty memory; more so than others, I think. There’s a thing my brain does when things get emotional or difficult or even just a little more than nothing — I think it turns off the black box that keeps recording the moment, that saves it for the future, that keeps the memories.
It’s the only way I can account for all the nothingness I have about my life. It starts in childhood, but it’s just continued throughout. I just have huge blank spots where other people remember this or have clear recollections of that. It’s annoying, not to be able to remember my own life with any sort of clarity or regularity. I can’t tell what makes the snapshot reel; it’s a hodgepodge and I just don’t know what I can really remember.
This extends into sobriety, too. I thought at some point, “maybe the pot really did affect my memory,” But, the fact of the matter is, I have a near photographic memory when it comes to names and faces and I can remember lots of strange details about certain things at times. I can replay conversations back verbatim, and I can remember lots of specifics about facts and procedure and such.
So, it’s not all memory. It’s specific memory. Memory attached to emotion — but even that isn’t so predictable. Maybe I was slightly embarrassed or overwhelmed at some point. It doesn’t seem overly traumatic at the time, but somewhere, something gets triggered and swoosh — erased.
It’s a weird phenomenon, and I’d like to look into it with a therapist. I’d like to do some hypnotherapy as well; dig around in some stuff so I can finally be free from some of the things (I don’t even know) that are haunting me. We’ll see.
Not sure how I got on this, really — I guess just the unpacking and being scared I’ll forget it all if I don’t keep the reminders. The knick knacks and the papers and the collages and all of the little things that I’ve managed to keep from the beginning. For now, it is what it is. But I’m asking for the willingness to change.
Okay. That was a post. Off to watch some Masterchef, ey?