Thank you, all of my blogging friends. I have struggled alone for so long, the support I have received here in recent weeks is astonishing. Each like, each comment, all the feedback, is oh so welcome. It means so much to be able to pour out my uncensored feelings and thoughts, and still be accepted. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. ~Rainey
Why is it that seemingly insignificant details seem to stick with me? I can’t remember what I had to eat this morning or the name of the toothbrush I need to replace, but I can remember a chance remark someone made to me ten years ago. I don’t wash clothes mid-week because if I do, I can’t remember what I’ve already worn that week and I might repeat (heaven forbid!).
I understand remembering hurtful things from my past that come back to haunt me. Like the time, when I was a teenager and acting out, my mother told me if my dad had a heart attack and died it would be my fault. Two years later, he had a heart attack….he didn’t die, thank God, but I still felt to blame. Things like that tend to stick, and I understand that.
But what about the stupid, minor things that happened? Like the time a friend showed me how he folds his t-shirts. I hang mine in the closet, so why do I remember him explaining it to me? Of all the billions of memories, why that one? Why do I remember that a friend from long ago, a girl I haven’t had contact with in many years, loved the color pink? I have no real attachment to her, the color pink, or that memory. But there it is, stored like it is of some great importance, right between my social security number and the names of every pet I ever owned.
Memory is a funny thing. For a very long while, I blocked out some terrible things from my childhood. In fact, I don’t remember as much about my childhood as most people do. While blocking out the bad, did I also block out the good? Or was my childhood so unremarkable that I simply forgot most of it? I do have some memories, don’t get me wrong. I remember my dogs, with great detail. I remember playing outside, alone. I even remember a terribly vivid nightmare I had where I tried to escape and the fence had knife-like jagged edges that sliced off my skin every time I tried to get away. I don’t really remember my family, or any friends, or things we did together. All of my earliest memories are of me, alone.
In my teen years I found drugs to erase the memories that were beginning to haunt me. Drugs, alcohol, sex, and rock ‘n roll became the way to escape. I have lost many of these memories due to my self-medication. This is probably for the best, because I am not too proud of some of the things I said and did during this period of my life.
Maybe because I have lost large chunks of important memories it leaves more room for the insignificant ones. Like the time a friend told me she gets really warm right before she gets out of bed, even in the winter. Who cares? Apparently, my memory does.
I hide behind colors
splashed across the pure white canvas
used to paint the happiness of a normal life
used to cover the darkness of mine
I hide behind WordPress
an anonymous wordsmith
spilling pain and sorrow onto the screen
broken pieces of me hidden in plain view
I hide behind my smile
created to mask the loneliness
the hollow center
that once was my soul
I hide behind my actions
that get me through each day
smile, talk, laugh, repeat
robotic sameness, my saving grace
I hide behind everything
because hiding is so much easier
than facing the harsh truth
of my reality.