Memory Hoarder

The downside of perfect recall

The other day during class, a student said, “I feel like a hoarder when it comes to remembering every bad thing.”

Since then, I’ve been mulling memory as weapon.

“We’re making memories!” Mom used to quip. She meant it as a good thing.

I keep a decent-sized stash of good moments. But that’s not what the student was referring to. She leaned into the human impulse to cling to the bad, what amasses inside a whirlpool of thought collecting sticks and leaves and debris—ruining joy and perspective.

She’s not wrong. I have a bad habit of replaying traumas, regrets, frustrations, missed opportunities, disappointments, insults, lost love, failures—. I fight a near-constant battle against letting these things define me.

Writing a memoir about finding my voice forces me into rooms I’d rather not enter.

The other day, the phone rang while I was elbow deep in the chest cavity of an especially difficult scene. The caller instantly detected my unsettled tone.

“Are you okay?” they repeated.

“I was writing,” I said, emphasis on writing.

My oversimplified reply fell far short of explaining what was really happening—that I had a mess on my hands, one of my own making, and the only way out was to keep going and that when I finally got it down on the page I’d be better, but the slog was kicking my ass.

Writing it out, cleans it out. Like my spare bedroom, boxes stacked in the corner full of God-knows-what that’s been collecting dust through half a dozen moves over umpteen years. If I got rid of it, no one would even know. Except me. And I know a lot of it needs to go.

It’s on the list, right after I finish this book.

One more room to clean out, to make way for a new thing, or maybe a new old thing, restored, put back together, stronger, repurposed for what’s next—hope.