A Dangerous Memory
I saw a pair of tables on BH yesterday on the set of Auntie Mame. The coffee tables in the second picture. The first thing that came to mind was 1st Dibs, but I didn’t know exactly why. This morning when I woke up I had a title: Neo Classical Mirrored Silver Plated French Cocktail/Side Tables, and the price was $5500. I typed it into google and there they were. I’m not sure how that works. You see something once, a couple of years back (or any time back, in my case), and it just gets imprinted in your brain. Fantastic considering the sort of work I do, but a monstrous hindrance regarding personal relationships. When you can summon back arguments in your mind, word for word, sensation for sensation, disappointment for disappointment- it makes getting over certain things very difficult. Sometimes the only way is eliminating any interaction with what triggers the memory. I suppose that’s (one of the reasons) why I feel so lucky I met Mike all those years ago (13). He was the first person in my life who headed my warnings: Be careful what you say, never cross the line. I’ll do the same.
It must be so much easier to have that mechanism other people have. The one mothers, in particular, seem to have. The one that dismisses bad moments, events, words. Whenever I speak to someone, it’s like a file is pulled out. Everything you’ve ever said to me. And as we talk, my head is scanning those pages, reviewing everything. The good, the bad and the ugly. The bad seems to be highlighted in red, for some reason. I take particular umbrage to what I perceived as some sort of injustice. I’ve tried all sorts of techniques to stop this happening, but I haven’t been entirely successful. I can mask it quite successfully with politeness, though- which I suppose is progress. This year I’m celebrating 15 years of having basically ‘divorced’ my family. I extricated them from my life at age 21 because I knew I’d never be able to give any of them a fair shot. There would always be the cloud of remember when you said. My mother has insisted on trying to force a meeting a few times since then., but it usually goes like this:
-”Why don’t we just meet for lunch, anywhere you want. Would you like to meet in Madrid?”
-”Pick a year, any year? How about 1988. That year you scheduled your Thursday aerobics class at the same time I got off school. This meant that every Thursday I was the last person to be picked up. I sat on a step wondering why I was the only child at my school this seemed to happen to.”
-”But that was so long ago, I’m sorry.”
-”I warned you then that I was unhappy with the arrangement and that I wouldn’t forget, well, I haven’t.”
A while back I saw an article about work on a pill that would make people forget things. I don’t think it would work in my case because it was to be taken after traumatic events- and I’ve never experienced traumatic events per se. Just a succession of small cumulative disappointments. I’d like a pill to erase certain people from my memory. That’s one I’d get excited about.