Memory

MSU and I were discussing some of the more difficult times in our marriage (see the post from September of 2007: The Inertia of Hopelessness and the Emotional Supernova). I've thought about it before - I even wrote a short poem about the phenomena once - but it struck me again how completely subjective nad piecemeal memories are.



Memories can only present themselves to our consciousness from our own point of view. I can remember my interpretation of how a person reacted, but that memory is dependent on my perceptions alone - which were quite possibly skewed by poor communication, wrongful assumptions, and the emotional climate of the day. Today's conversation with MSU was frought with statements like, "I don't remember that," and "Didn't it happen this way?"



My own memories are generally emotions-based: I don't remember the day or the events that lead up to the situation, but I'll generally remember how I felt and/or how I reacted. Sometimes this makes conversations about days past frustrating for those around me, as I often can't say how a thing came to pass, only how I felt when it did. If the day/situation/event in question didn't have some kind of emotional attachment factor, I won't remember it.



In essence, I remember the when without the why. Arguably, this forces my learning curve into a rather flat shape, as it could be theorized that I might often make the same life mistakes because my memory is "flawed" and I might be duplicating actions/events/choices because only the outcome of a previous and similar choice - not the "lead in" - presents itself to my consciouness, and then only if the outcome had an extreme emotional impact.



Take childbirth, for example. I often feel rather left out of conversations with other mothers, because so many of them can remember the exact time their babies were born, their exact weight and length, the names of the medical personnel attending, the course of the events from first contraction to taking the baby home. Other mothers have looked at me askance when I've confided that I don't remember these things, as if I'm somehow less than what a good mother should be because these details do not present themselves to my consciosness years later. With my firstborn, I remember my water breaking: I was very confused (because I thought I had wet the bed). I remember calling the squadron, becuase MSU was flying that day, to have them call his bird back: I was so excited. I remember being so tired (36 hour labor) and actually falling asleep between contractions. I remember being allowed to push: I felt so triumphant to be in action after so long in a passive state. I remember her becoming "stuck:" I was terrified. I remember her crowning: the pain was unlike any I'd ever felt before and I was shocked and surprised. I remember the bony strangeness of her shoulders coming out, and then the wholly disconcerting feeling of the rest of her body sliding out of me: I felt suddenly and totally alone and empty. And I remember her warm little body on my chest and stomach: I felt Love, True Love, for the first time in my life, a feeling that eradicated any notions I had previously had of Love and that surged through me with a ferocity that both warmed me and frightened me. I remember nursing her for the first time: my body wracked with sobs because she and I didn't take to the process easily and I was sure that I was a horrible mother because I couldn't feed my child properly.



I have no idea how much she weighed, what her Apgar score was, what time she was born, or loading her into the car to take her home. I don't remember these things because they were emotionally unimportant.

To me, memory is like a poorly shingled roof. There is no rhyme nor reason to what is peeled away by time and what remains. I have no explanation for remembering events differently than others who were there except for the fact that my memories are mine and theirs belong to them. Anything remembered must also necessarily be remembered from the singular standpoint of one person; anything remembered must necessarily be edited by time and increased emotional distance. I have no doubt that my mind edits some memories to make them less painful, less traumatic, less personal; some have accused me of denial in this sense, sometimes even outright deceit. But I do not believe that any of us has control over the mind's ongoing editing process, nor would I accuse someone of being deceptive just because they don't remember something the way I remember it. I do believe that memory - at least mine - is fundamentally flawed because emotions, too, wane over time.