Memory is a funny thing, and it seems that not even the world’s best psychologists and neurologists can tell us exactly how it works. We know that most people cannot remember anything before age two, and we know that many degenerative diseases that come along with aging make memory worse. We know that trauma impacts how memories are developed and stored, and we know that memory can sometimes include more about the smells, sensations, and feelings we had on a particular day rather than the actions that occurred.
I have always been fascinated with concepts related to memory–or, at the very least, I have been fascinated with concepts related to memory for the last ten or so years. When I was in high school and enjoyed nothing more than stealing the family-shared laptop and holing up in my room to write, I remember working on a science fiction story (heavily inspired by Star Wars: The Clone Wars if I’m being honest) that was about an army of clones, in which one accidentally received the memories of the host.
I did not have reason to think about this little story for quite some time until my husband and I were recently watching X-Men ‘97, which included a shockingly similar plotline. I guess the late 1990s and early 2000s were rife with stories about cloning and memory loss/gain, and it led Ian and I into a great discussion about whether memory makes a person who they are or not.
The idea of the impact of memory on self-concept and personhood is certainly not unique to fantasy, science-, and speculative-fiction. Just think of The Notebook. (If you have seen it, great; if you have not seen it, prepare yourself with a box of tissues.) To give a spoiler-filled synopsis, The Notebook is about two young lovers who are forced away from one another yet find each other over and over again during the course of their lives. An old man is reading this story to an old woman who has dementia and lives in a nursing home, and in the end it is revealed that they are the lovers in the story, and he comes to read their story to her–from a notebook, of course–every day. They die holding hands. Everyone cries. The end.
Even outside of fiction entirely, I have had reason to dwell on the idea of memory loss. When I was in college, my great-grandma passed away after living well into her 90s. She had a great, full life, although she spent the last five years or so in a nursing home with severe Alzheimer’s. The craziest thing was that Grandma Pugh could remember things from her childhood in great detail. It was everything from later in life that was quite fuzzy. Even so, whenever my family would visit, Grandma Pugh’s face would light up when she saw my mom. She could not tell you her name, nor did she probably know that she was her granddaughter without being told, but she recognized someone she loved and was excited to see.
So yeah. Memory loss weighs heavy on my mind from time to time, although I would not necessarily say it is something that I fear. When I was a child, I had a great memory, and I was also very smart. Since my early twenties, my memory, both short-term and long-term, is not so great. I sometimes wonder if this memory loss is a facet of mental illness, of which I have many. I sometimes wonder if it was impacted by transcranial magnetic stimulation, a procedure I underwent for ten weeks in the summer of 2020 to help mitigate my treatment-resistant depression. Mental health aside, it is also possible that I am feeling the early effects of my family history of degenerative disease or I’m simply slowing down, as everyone does to some degree when they get older.
It is honestly the challenges with short-term memory that bother me the most, at least at this point in my life. I leave sticky notes littered all over the place while also using three separate calendars to remind myself about what I need to do. I am no longer so clever that I can be considered a “quick learner”--I am constantly having to refer back to different resources to remember how to do things, for work especially. I forget the plot of most books and TV shows once I am finished consuming them, and–by far most annoyingly–I have to go back and reread things I have already written in That Novel I Have Been Writing to remember where to pick up and avoid leaving any loose ends.
When I thought about memory loss when I was younger, specifically when Grandma Pugh went to live at the nursing home, I was always afraid that I would forget the big things in life. Now, surprisingly, that is no longer a fear of mine. I think that this lack of fear has a lot to do with the fact that I love journaling and taking pictures. Even when my mind forgets something, journal entries and pictures allow me to jump back in time and relive many special moments.
Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of the lives of others, like when I went to my niece’s first dance recital last weekend or even when I see neighborhood kids playing in the field between our apartment buildings, I savor the sensation that I am watching someone’s memories develop in real time. They will look back on this moment and smile, and I was there to see it happen. Sometimes, even when I am having a bad time, I can say to myself, “Well, this is going to be a really funny story someday.” I think that this idea is, in fact, what prompted me to write today.
While March is traditionally The Bad Month for me, May is a month chock-full of memories of all varieties. For the many years that my life existed within the confines of the academic calendar, May marked the end of the year as well as the beginning of summer, a time of year that is universally beloved among most children. My last May that marked the end of an academic year was May 2022. Looking back, I do believe that May 2022–and the summer that followed–was the most pivotal time of my life so far. I graduated with my Master of Social Work (my terminal degree) on May 15; moved out of my hometown and in with my long-term boyfriend, then-fiancé, now-husband on May 16; and started my first Big Girl Job–arguably the most challenging job I will ever have–on May 23.
I desperately want to be someone who is go-with-the-flow and leans into change, but that has never been me. Even when change is for the better, it is hard for me to let go. Even when change is completely arbitrary, it is hard for me to let go. My parents have told me that when I was a kid and they got rid of one of their cars, I cried for hours, convinced that I would miss it . . . and honestly, that checks out. I still often feel and behave this way, even though I try not to.
All of this is to say that summer 2022 was rough. I was happy to be living with Ian, but our downtown apartment was not the greatest. The shower never stayed warm, there was a hole in the wall where drywall would sprinkle in a little bit more every time it rained, we had plastic wrap over the windows to help with insulation, and our neighbor liked to smoke on the fire escape right beside the opaque bathroom window (which had bars over it, if that helps complete the image for you) so that I could hear every word of their conversation while I was on the toilet. Additionally, we lived on the third floor. Our neighbor on the second floor listened to songs like “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at all hours of the day, and I frequently considered sliding a note under her door to see if she was okay. I once watched our neighbor on the first floor throw potatoes at the outside of the building for no apparent reason, and the potatoes were then left on the ground to rot clear up until Ian and I moved out of our apartment.
Clearly, the apartment was not the greatest place I had ever lived, and I did not even get to reap the benefits of living with Ian at first because at his old job he was working evening shift (2pm - 10pm) while I was working day shift (8am - 4am). The only time we saw each other was for one hour before bed. I had no family and exactly one friend in Wheeling, and I was the youngest employee at the residential facility where I worked. I don’t know how or why, when one of my strongest memories of that era of my life is chasing my rolling water bottle down the street in downtown Wheeling while preparing to go provide therapy to traumatized teens as a fresh graduate in khakis that didn’t quite fit, but I actually look back at that time in my life fondly.
I hate to say it, but times of duress and change in my life have been the times that I have experienced the most growth. The good memories stand out the strongest. The bad memories make me laugh or make me mourn–and even then, mourning is a sign that something good once was. As I pour through these old May memories, I wish more than anything that I could give past-me a hug and say, “I love you. It’s going to be okay.”
This May, Ian and I have been in the process of house hunting, which feels like getting beaten with an aluminum baseball bat. Interest rates are high, houses that we like are scarce, and when we did find a house that seemed completely perfect, we were quickly outbid. I have been stressed out about work again and doing that thing I do every single year on the dot where I wonder, What am I doing with my life? Does any of this matter?
All of this being said, though, if I currently want to tell 2022 me that I love her and everything will be okay, certainly some future iteration of me is hovering near and whispering, I love you, and every memory, experience, and challenge–good or bad–will one day be a part of your story.
I leave you with a quote from Oscar Wilde: “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.”
And a picture of May 2022 as I remember it–lonely but lovely:
Until next time,
Alexa