Memories: My Most Relentless Enemy.

I am convinced that hell does not exist, well at least not as an entity outside of ourselves. Whether there is life after death, that remains to be determined, however I emphatically believe that a merciful and just God would not allow for the existence of a place that could be more dreadful and painful than our own mind, more specifically our memories. Oh memories, like the corners of my mind, yeah…. memories like the deepest, smelliest, hottest corners of hell. Don’t get me wrong, memories can bring smiles to our faces, joy to our hearts and calmness to a racing mind, but boy oh boy, on the flipside, memories can stagnate you, cause tears to roll down your face at the most inopportune moments, memories, the cause of insomnia, the cause of depression, crippling anxiety and so many other unpleasant things.

What fascinates me the most about my memory is how vividly I remember the things that I wish that I could forget and how faintly I remember the things that I truly wish that I could remember with greater details. For example, today. I was minding my own business preparing my dinner of pan seared shrimp and asparagus (completely irrelevant information) when suddenly, my heart stopped and I vividly remembered a situation that occurred more than thirty, close to thirty -five years ago.

My mother had prepared dinner for my five older siblings, my older brother, his live- in girlfriend and her three children, two of whom were close in age to me. I remember hearing my mother call each child one by one by name to get their bowl of food, which if memory serves me well, was Kraft macaroni and cheese and fried chicken wings. One by one each child ran to the kitchen when they heard their name called, returning with smiles on their faces and gooey cheesy and crispy goodness in their bowls. After the last child was called and all the children were sitting in front of the television devouring their dinner, I recall sitting on the floor waiting for my mother to call my name, but she didn’t. My mother, who looked tired and exhausted walked into the living room where everyone was eating except for me. I said nothing, all I remember doing was crying. My mom looked at me and asked why I was crying, I blurted out, “You didn’t give me any food”. My mom, with a shocked and tired look on her face apologized and said, “I’m sorry I forgot all about you” as she walked to the kitchen and prepared me a bowl of macaroni and cheese and fried chicken. Though she rectified the situation, my heart was broken. How could you forget about me? Why wasn’t my nourishment a priority to you? I was your baby. How could you remember to feed everyone else and not me? What was so unremarkable about my six- year old self that my mother would forget to feed me, her baby, her youngest of eight? Why did I mean so little to her? I know, I know mistakes happen and I am not trying to paint my mother out to be a beast, however this memory was so powerful because it caused me to reflect on life and how often I have been the “forgotten one” throughout the course of my life.

How many times have I been told directly or indirectly through action and inaction that I didn’t matter? It seems as if that minor unintentional oversight on my mother’s part back in 1986 pretty much set the stage for every friendship, romantic relationship and career opportunity in my life that followed. How many times have I watched others devour their crispy chicken wings and macaroni and cheese of life as I sat down and watched empty handed and hungry, only to never have anyone ask why was I crying? Well because I wasn’t crying, I have learned to accept my position as the “forgotten one” in complete silence hidden behind a nonchalant smile of indifference.

Who would have thought that asparagus and shrimp could be responsible for such deep introspection? Well at least it tastes good. Memory, you are a son of a bitch. God, if a place exists that is worse than my memory, I promise to do any and everything that I can in my lifetime to avoid it.