My memory blows. It’s terrible. People will recall memories they had with me and I’ll say, “wait, was I there?” I can’t remember anything. Most of the memories I do have were actually told to me by someone else; I myself can’t remember it ever happening. I remember vague outlines, but few specific details. Or then sometimes I’ll remember some stupid detail, like what shirt I was wearing, but won’t remember something important, like who I was with.
Do I have early onset Alzheimer’s, or am I just stupid?
Don’t answer that. Really, don’t. I already have blond hair and Polish decent stacked up against me; I don’t need any more ammunition for people. So I probably shouldn’t have mentioned this. Oh well, I don’t believe in the delete button. Once it’s out, it’s out.
I told Steve tonight that I wish I would have kept journals my entire life, starting early, like age 8, and wrote an entry every day. Like Anne Frank. That girl was a genius. No seriously, if you haven’t read her diary, you must. She had the brilliance of someone much beyond her years. Had I kept these journals, I could read back and refresh my memory as to what happened and how I felt. I could remember parts of me that are missing: the parts that can only be pieced together by other people’s memories, and I don’t know that I can entirely believe those. I would much rather listen to myself than someone else claiming to be an expert on myself.
I did keep journals when I was younger, but they all made their way to the bottom of the garbage can on trash day out of fear or knowledge of a nosy family member reading it. But if I could be a kid again, and if I didn’t live in a house without privacy (we shared bathwater, for God’s sake), I would keep journals ẚ la Anne Frank. I would remember my own life. I wouldn’t be a mystery to myself. And maybe I could make some more sense of my senselessness.
At least I’ve got my blogs. I have chronicled the last two years of my life: my emotions and triumphs and frustrations and events. And this time, I’m asking people to read it. Try to make sense out of that. And if you can’t, blame it on the blond or the Polish in me, or the Alzheimer’s.