My memory is going.
I already have gaps from my childhood; years and years where I can’t remember a damn thing. I’ve been told what happened, and as the brain is a fantastic thing, I’ve pieced together memories based on vague ideas. Other people have such great tales of mischief from their formative years. I have memories of crying in toilets, feeling hurt, and being rejected and ousted by my peers. Of course good things happened. The events surrounding my first crush taught me about friendship, relationships and teenage boys. The moments of painful self-awareness contrasted with extreme arrogance taught me how to control my inner (and not-so-inner!) idiot and gave me a way to avoid being a victim of those traits in others. I don’t have any moments of daring or extreme excitement. All of my happiest memories, or what’s left of them, are tinged with anxiety and tension as I recall the lies, the bullying and the intensity of the feelings behind them.
That scares me. It scares me that I’ve forgotten growing up. Even the things that I thought would stay with me forever have faded into mere flashes.
The memory loss is getting worse. I put things down and can’t remember where I put them (my glasses, keys and the kids’ sippy cups often falling foul of this). I can’t remember events, both upcoming and already passed. I can’t remember whether something happened this morning, last night, last week or last year. My perception of the passage of time has become both minutely compressed and impossibly stretched.
I’m not sure whether this is another symptom of the anxiety and depression or whatever it is, or a side-effect of packing my days full of nappies and kids and breastfeeding and cuddling and playing and shouting and chatting and working to the point where my mind feels it’s an inefficient waste of time to switch off to sleep.