Remembering Summer Romances
How the way we remember past lovers ties into a larger narrative we create about ourselves.
It’s official. We’re in the dog days of summer. A time when the novelty of pool parties, beach outings, and cookouts begin to wear off. We’re no closer to the start of Fall than we are to the end of Spring, and new summer romances are either blossoming to the their full potential, or starting to show signs of their withering decline.
In my thirty-six summers I’ve had my share of both intense, short-lived romances, and passing infatuations. Some I have nearly forgotten come Fall (and that’s probably a good thing,) while the memory of others remain. And with each passing year, these memories seem to morph and change, ageing to take on unique hues within the coloring of my mind’s eye.
But why?
The truth of the matter is, the memories we have today of the “why”, “where”, and “what” of summer relationships past, are a reflection of who we are now and the stories we tell ourselves about those times in our lives.
When I think back on my own relationships, or any event from my past for that matter, what I remember is not a perfectly objective facsimile of the events that transpired, but rather a story I have constructed around them. As I age and grow, my memories of these events, become part of the larger story of “my life”, reflecting my self-narrative style and the values of who I am today.
Our lives are an impossibly complex series of random events. The people we meet and the situations we encounter could all have gone one way or another depending on when we happened to leave the house that day. The idea of this, if not at least overwhelming, is also existentially perplexing.
Who are we if not the sum total of our independently determined personal choices? This is where construction of personal narrative comes into play to help us try and makes sense of it all.
By tying all of these facts about our lives into a story, we help direct our current and future selves down a path that makes sense to us. Whether it is true, or for that matter good for us mentally in the long-run, is beside the point. It’s simply how our minds make sense of our countless individual experiences.
As described by Julie Beck in an article she wrote for The Atlantic about the topic:
In the realm of narrative psychology, a person’s life story is not a Wikipedia biography of the facts and events of a life, but rather the way a person integrates those facts and events internally — picks them apart and weaves them back together to make meaning. This narrative becomes a form of identity, in which the things someone chooses to include in the story, and the way she tells it, can both reflect and shape who she is. A life story doesn’t just say what happened, it says why it was important, what it means for who the person is, for who they’ll become, and for what happens next.
The self-help adage “there are no regrets, only lessons to be learned,” ties into this idea of self-narrative. And, there are different ways in which people can construct these narratives depending on how they generally view and experience the world around them.
If you are someone who looks at situations that do not turn out how you intend merely as regretful, then you are inclined to adopt a narrative identity of “contamination” (i.e., victim), whereby things happen to you and are void of any sort of constructive meaning. Through this lens, a person who has a summer romance that was particularly passionate and intense, but ended abruptly and with great consternation, will over time create a story of this event in their life that fits with a larger narrative that they are victim to circumstance, chance, fate, etc., and that will be the end of it.
On the other hand, a person who sees life as a series of lessons to be learned, that is, one who sees every situation as an opportunity for growth, knowledge, learning, etc., then they are one who adopts more of a “redemption” narrative identity. The abrupt ending to that same summer romance will, for a person with a redemptive narrative style, over time take on a new, positive quality, and be seen as an opportunity for learning. The initial sadness of losing the relationship will still be there, but that feeling gives way to becoming part of a larger story as one’s redemption narrative takes over.
One’s inclination towards adopting one of these narrative styles is likely established at some point in youth, and once established, becomes very difficult to shift away from.
Beck continues in her article:
It’s in the late teens and early years of adulthood that story construction really picks up — because by then people have developed some of the cognitive tools they need to create a coherent life story. These include causal coherence — the ability to describe how one event led to another — and thematic coherence — the ability to identify overarching values and motifs that recur throughout the story. In a study [at the Goethe Institute] analyzing the life stories of 8-, 12-, 16-, and 20-year-olds, these kinds of coherence were found to increase with age. As the life story enters its last chapters, it may become more set in stone.
In other words, the earlier we start down one narrative style path, and the longer we continue to reinforce it through our stories, the harder it is to change our narrative style to something else.
However, just because you may have been operating under a contamination narrative for years doesn’t mean it is impossible to start writing a new narrative in the redemptive style. In fact, indicators in the research show that there are incentives to doing so.
“Studies have shown that finding a positive meaning in negative events is linked to a more complex sense of self and greater life satisfaction.“(Beck, The Atlantic 2015)
The very idea of writing about a summer romance is, in itself, pregnant with the notion of self-narrative. It asks us to wax nostalgic to the summers of our youth. It begs us to tell a story.
When I began to write this article, I tried to think back on all of my summers, searching chronologically for the interesting details of each passing season. I was looking for that one, essential experience — that major turning point that made me the person I am today. The funny thing I discovered was that these summers in my mind are contained less with specific details than they are with more general feelings. And none of them, taken individually, feel like life-changing moments, but rather feel as if they are part of a larger understanding I have about myself and my life.
Take for instance the summer of 2004. I don’t remember where I ate any of my meals while during an extended beach trip to St. Petersburg, Florida. Nor do I remember the particulars of the weather or what my boyfriend Josh and I may have argued about. But I do remember I was happy, and in love.
After that summer, the relationship fell apart. We didn’t speak for a long time thereafter. However in recent years, we are again friends, communicate occasionally, and will meet for coffee or lunch if we find ourselves in the same city.
There are many memories I have of Josh, but the memories tied to that summer of 2004 that we spent together in a particularly famous, pink, beach-side hotel, exploring the Gulf Coast of Florida, are the ones I hold most dearly. They are the ones that have shaped the story of him and me.
All else, vaguely remembered and recalled, simply doesn’t matter. It’s not part of my story.
