Writing and Whatnot

Do other people remember differently? Do they have whole stories? Do they get whole scenes, things they can make sense of? Do they feel like their life is a single, continuous piece, without lots of missing bits?

Or maybe this is how everyone remembers the past, like beads that have been scattered from a string, most of them falling between the cracks in the floor, probably never to be found again.

Maybe it’s just that my beads are more scattered than most people’s. I’ve learned to cover it up, because it just seems easier that way. I’ve learned to make up for those missing beads, to pretend I still have them.

But the fact is, I don’t remember when. At best, I can remember what I ate for breakfast.

That’s not precisely true. There are things I can remember, at least some of the time. It just seems so random, so unpredictable. And I can never be sure whether I’ve actually remembered it, or whether it’s a story I read somewhere, or something I made up to soothe myself to sleep.

What is memory, anyways? It’s really just some electrical impulses in the brain, or something like that. I don’t know why it matters so much to me, except that I don’t seem to have it.

I am starting this journal for some reason. I know I have other journals, and I never seem to write in them. It’s like I forget they exist. Or every so often, I will open one up, and something inside scares me off, so I don’t read it. What’s the point of writing something that I won’t go back to read? But I keep writing anyways.

Sometimes, I think there are ghosts in my house. I couldn’t say why. But it seems like things get moved or rearranged, and for the life of me, I couldn’t say how it happened. Sometimes, I think there are ghosts in my head. That makes more sense than ghosts in the house, anyways. Some strange quirk of my weird brain, I guess.

I’ve always felt like the line between me and crazy was pretty flimsy. There’s no reason to think that, but I have thought it for as long as I can remember. Or maybe not so much thought, as felt. There’s a barrier, and it’s like, push just an inch too far, and there you are. No longer in sane world, but way, way deep into crazy land. Sometimes, that scares me. Just as often, it’s like a temptation I have a hard time resisting. It’s this knowledge that if things get just one tiny bit more overwhelming, I could take that step and go off into crazy land, and not have to cope any more.

But the fact is, I do keep on coping. No matter how overwhelmed I get, I somehow keep on coping. I can’t even explain how I do it, it just happens. Sometimes, I don’t even remember doing it, but I can tell that it happened, that it must have been me, because there’s no evidence of anyone but me having done anything. But before, during, and after, it never felt like I could cope.

At the same time, I have to wonder. Why do I feel overwhelmed all the time? I’m not dealing with anything more than anyone else I know. Well, okay, there is the stuff from the past, but that should be over and done with by now. I’ve had therapy, I’ve done the groups. All of that stuff. So there’s no real reason that should make me feel overwhelmed with the basic day to day stuff. I’ve done the workbooks. I have all of the skills I’m supposed to have.

But lurking at the back of my brain, there’s this feeling. I guess that’s all it is. I can imagine it, this feeling of an ogre, lurking back there, fuzzy and dark gray. And if I’m not pushing all the time to keep it back, there’s the threat: Stop pushing, and the ogre, that feeling of being totally smothered and overwhelmed, will come on full force.