I rely on my journals for my memory. If I didn’t have those right on the book shelf, I don’t think I would have any idea how far I’ve come. I feel my memory is getting better for day to day stuff like stove burners and locking the door, but there are still huge gaps in it and that is when I pick up my journal and try to remember.
A few weeks ago I wrote that my kid sis was afraid of all the doom sayers. It was pointed out to me that my sis was only 3 during Y2K. Correct… she was only 3.
Then it has really been bugging me as to who I was thinking about. I’ve gone back into my journals to try and figure out who I was thinking about. It’s my red head cousin Melissa who was freaked out about end of the world stuff. (I knew it was one of the few red heads in the family.)
My sis was afraid of the loud bang… bang… bang… tink, tink tink tink… of the heater in the basement. When we had to turn the heater on for that first time of year when summer turned to fall, the heater would make all that noise and my sister thought it was a monster in basement. That was why she wanted all of us to sleep near the fire place… no heater holes were in that room.
My jumbled memory keeps me grabbing my obsessive journals off the book case. But as I read them and sift through them for my memory… I keep coming across delusions, babble, and other stuff that serves no purpose to my healing.
I’ve been thinking of rewriting my journals if I can. Try and pick out the stuff that is actually lucid and leave the delusions behind. It scares me when I come across something, re-read it, ponder it and a voice somewhere inside me says… That makes perfect sense. Then I re-read it and No, it doesn’t make perfect sense. It’s not good in fact. It’s sneaky brained thinking trying to sneak back in. (none of my anatomy has mutated, and there is no tracking device where my appendix use to be.)
I’m almost tempted to hand my journals over to my sis and ask her to sift through them and write the lucid stuff, but she might not be able to tell what is and isn’t from my writing at times. I would love to burn some of these old journals, but then I’d have no idea what happened in my life.
My kid sis’s theory:
Memory is just like any muscle or skill and if I don’t use it, I loose it. She says my journals are a crutch or a splint that doesn’t need to be needed any more. But as long as I just keep turning to the journals, I don’t actively use my memory. If I don’t actively use it, it will get weaker.
She’s also trying to tell me… “So what if you get people mixed up. people without SZ get people confused with other people all the time.”
She tells me not to sweat the past confusions about family history and just work on the stove burners and closing the windows when it snows.
But people without Sz have a memory about who they were. I want that. My journals are who I was. Even though I have an odd relationship with who I was… I still want to keep my eye on that guy so he doesn’t come back.
I guess I’m going to have to find a way to improve my memory and eventually burn the journals. I keep saying I’ll do that. But then I won’t remember anything. With my journals in tact, when I want to remember something I feel I at least have half a chance. Even if reading them makes me cringe and feel a little nauseous
Can memory be strengthened like a muscle? Or once it’s gone it’s gone?