Broken Memories
They broke me, so I broke them
I don’t trust my memories. Scratch that, I can’t trust my memories.
Somewhere through the trauma I gained an ability I would come to appreciate, before hating. Without even consciously trying, I started to rewrite and recode my mind until I could remember those moments no more. Except by moment I mean that trying to recall anything from a two-month period is pretty much pointless.
How little did I remember?
I couldn’t remember the pain. I couldn’t remember being suicidal. I couldn’t remember who I talked to. I couldn’t remember any of the symptoms. And all of this left me unprepared.
Months later these pains popped up, but when they did I couldn’t quite shake this feeling that this feeling is not new. And the symptoms, the ones I sorted out into manic and depressed, then manic, and more depressed. Yes, those felt familiar too.
Now I can tell exactly when I’ve found a memory that was supposed to be locked away. First, I’m met with this blank ambiance, the best part of this whole ordeal. Then comes the pain as something sticks its claws into this blank space and climb and scales until it returns to its rightful place. “You cannot get rid of me.”
At least that’s how it feels on one occasion. In other occasions, it may feel like instead of jumping a car, I had cable stuck to me left and right ear and felt every volt slowly touch me until that hazardous, unwanted feeling is revived in its former place. “I told you I’d be back.”
Or it may just make me want to breakdown, ligaments limp, and body mindless. A wooden puppet left lifeless, alone. Eyes up just staring at the sky. “I am in control now.”
Reliving the days made me realize why my mind did it. Maybe at the time I wasn’t as ready to handle it. I still struggling now, escaping to my room, damn near screaming from head pains, always screaming from hallucinations. Protect me from myself until I need you no longer.
Because now, I can catch myself in the beginning processes digging graves for new memories and I consciously debate on what they should be filled with. Sometimes back with what left, the original dirt. Sometimes, more controlled, just a piece that is just over what I can handle. And sometimes show no remorse and push it all in. This time just stop with the memory though.
Before you took the memory with all that surrounded it, just to be safe. Or, maybe I didn’t realize how much of what I think where good times were still plagued with pain. Either way, it cost too much. This I can enjoy though. This can be me. I can’t trust my memories. I leave only what I want to see.
