The Importance of Memories

A few years ago, I lost all my memories after the age of 10. Even as I’m writing this I’m unaware of just precisely when this all began though I’m sure as I write this clues will eventually be filled in. 6 months ago, I quit my treatments that caused this memory loss and as everyday passes I regain more and memories of my previous life by looking through old photos and scrapbooks my parents have been finding for me. It’s often disturbing that I am indeed a stranger to myself and all of those who still care for me.

Perhaps I should explain my memory loss in more specific detail. I lost anything with a strong emotional attachment to my mind. For example, I retained my schooling, the knowledge I could care less for as a child. However, my friends, the days that I spent in the sunshine or the days that brought me anger, sadness, or joy, are gone. I find it more difficult to remember my last year of schooling as I understand I had become more emotionally involved in my field at that point in time. The sun is starting to shine once more as with each passing moment takes me further from the days of my treatment and my mind grows healthier and wiser each day.

Before you find yourself angry at those responsible for my treatment, know why it was done in the first place. From what I’ve been told, I used to live an incredible life filled with so much love and little worry. I supposedly had a great natural talent for numerous areas and always adventured past the comfort of a normal life. I traveled everywhere and saw incredible things. But despite all that I had, I was depressed and lonely inside. I had plenty of friends, but there would be so many days that I would cry or just sit in my room. As I grew up I was prescribed medication for the depression, but it honestly did nothing. I remember the day that started everything. I was going to the University of Arizona to get a bachelor’s in geology. I had a mental breakdown and tried desperately to commit suicide. See, I already had everything and I knew with my motivation I could become anything I wanted. Well, maybe not a singer, but probably anything else. But I didn’t want it. Where was the real pain? Why did I want to crumble every day from a nonexistent pain? Why did everything have to seem so perfect to me? I don’t believe I’ve ever worked hard a day in my life. My parents would say I did struggle. They’d tell you about all my health issues growing up and my poor grades in school. How I didn’t have a direction after high school and was letting my life go to waste. But I was always grateful for it all. The days I was sick were the days we’d watch my favorite movies and play my favorite games. I didn’t care that I was failing because I knew with confidence that I understood the class. I was always paying attention even if it looked like I was sleeping on my desk during class. I knew I needed to figure out what it was that I truly loved to do before I went for a degree and guess what? I found my passion all thanks to wasting that year or two.

Now don’t get me wrong, my parents also love to brag about their two kids more than anything. They’ve told me plenty of stories about all my accomplishments. Unfortunately, the more I hear, the more I see a figure I’ll never live up to.

It has only been 6 months since my treatment, but things are moving along steadily and I hope as each day continues I will learn to understand my own mysteries.

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