Down Memory Lane

I was 30 years old when memory tech started to become mainstream. In the beginning, it was used for older patients; particularly those suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Of course, you needed the embedded bio software to utilize it, which many older folks were afraid of.

That wasn’t the case for me. I, like many millennials, welcomed the Chip. The surgery was a fifteen-minute procedure, made possible by complex robotics that had been built for medical purposes. The recovery was worse than the actual surgery, I found — for about three weeks, I suffered through periods of deep dissociation and confusion. At first, it was difficult to discern which were my “original” thoughts versus thoughts that the Chip was providing for me. Through advanced algorithms and code I couldn’t possibly conceptualize, I no longer needed to Google — I simply knew.

By the time memory tech became widely available, I had grown used to the Chip; so much so that I struggled to remember life before implantation. The price of the MemTech app seemed reasonable enough: $24.99 for the ability to create unlimited “memory spaces”. Pay the fee, and your Chip automatically begins downloading the software.

The first day I loaded up the app was unforgettable (no pun intended, I think). I found myself in an empty white space, which simultaneously felt virtual AND physical — perhaps akin to lucid dreaming. On the ground (or lack thereof) in this space, situated squarely in front of me, was a plastic child’s locket.

I walked forward, realizing immediately that I couldn’t perceive my body. There were no footsteps, no feet, simply no body at all. The only sense I had was my sight. Despite this, I could very well “move” my perspective from one point to another, which I did to get a closer look at the locket. It was heart-shaped, emblazoned with the initials “PP” in gold on the front. Recognition flooded my non-body: this was a Polly Pocket necklace I had loved as a child, gifted to me sometime in the late ‘90s.

As I came upon this realization, I was shocked as an environment began to render and materialize around me, swallowing up the plain white landscape. As the environment emerged, so too did my physical form — a child version of me. By my shoe size and clothes, I assumed I was around 8 or 9 years old.

I turned the locket around in my small hands, reveling in the novelty of it all. Finally, I looked up to see that the environment had finished rendering and I knew exactly where I was. The dingy two-story apartment building with peeling gray paint was an unmistakable recreation of my grandmother’s home.

I’ll admit it, I wept. During this point in my life, I had been dealing with complex grief. After losing my grandmother, my mother and my sister in quick succession, I had become nothing more than a husk. I felt like a ghost, like I had died along with them. I wasn’t connected to my corporeal form. Perhaps that’s why the Chip worked so well for me… but I digress.

My child-self stood there crying on the sidewalk for several minutes, marveling at the sheer power of this technology. I felt unsure that my mental state could handle it, but I wanted to press on. I wanted to see her — my grandmother.

Slowly I walked up to her front door. I paused before ringing the doorbell; I felt frightened but excited as well. Mustering up my courage, I rang the doorbell twice as I always had done before. It opened before me and I held my breath, expecting to see my grandmother on the other side, but there was no one — the entryway was empty.

“Nana?” I called, jumping at the sound of my own child-voice. A pinging noise caused me to jump again, and dialogue appeared in my vision. “Tip: Entities within Memory Spaces™ are unable to interact with you.”

Figures, I thought. I took in the space around me: the old, flattened gray carpet, the immaculate living room furniture, the scratched-up wooden dinner table. I could smell smoke, and knew it was from the menthol cigarettes she loved. Looking closer, I noticed that there were Halloween decorations strewn about — this memory must have taken place in October.

The layout was easy to recall – this was a small apartment, after all. I made my way down the hallway leading towards her bedroom, feeling unsure of what to expect from the digital entity representing my grandmother. I entered her bedroom, and there she was, sitting cross-legged on her La-Z-Boy recliner with a lit cigarette in her mouth.

Her expression was serene. She took no notice of me as I entered the room; she simply tapped the ash off the end of her smoke and continued watching the TV. I peered over to see what was on — The Andy Griffith Show. That’s right, I thought, this was one of her afternoon programs.

I spent the next several hours just sitting there in that smoky room with her, occasionally crying but feeling overwhelmingly grateful to be a part of this experience, even if it wasn’t quite “real”.

This marked the beginning of the end for me. Originally, I thought being inside the Space would be therapeutic for me, and maybe it was for a period of time. But like so many other things, I developed an unhealthy obsession; a dependence of sorts. It wasn’t until about six months after I’d purchased the app that I began to see the physical consequences of my new addiction.

“You have to live in reality,” said my kind doctor. I thought he was far too kind to be any sort of medical professional. “It’s helping me mentally,” I lied, avoiding his gaze.

“Okay, and that’s a wonderful development. But you can’t neglect your physical form. You can’t live inside your head — after all, your brain is inside your body,” he said softly.

Unfortunately, my doctor was right: my physical body was suffering in a great way. I had lost most of my body weight and my bones protruded grotesquely. You don’t need to eat or drink when you’re inside the Space. So, I rarely bothered.

On the way home from my doctor’s office, I made my decision: I would simply go in without coming back out. I knew dehydration wouldn’t take long to kill me. I lived alone; nobody relied on me. Hell, nobody would even notice my absence for weeks, maybe even months.

When I got home, I methodically made my bed, taking the time to make it extra comfortable. I laid back onto the pillows and peered down at my frail, destroyed body. My skin was as thin as cheesecloth, and I could see every one of my veins. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, navigating the Chip’s interface behind my eyelids.

As I entered the Space, I saw dialogue appear before me: “Tip: This is only a simulation. Remember to maintain a healthy relationship with the physical world!”