And when I do come here, I inevitably end up confused and needing time and space to sort things through . It's like a musty old attic, boxes of stuff stored up there for a long time, and the only way to find out what is in the boxes is to go through them, one by one, taking out the contents, looking at everything, trying to remember what it is and where it's from and why it's there. Trying to piece together the story of me, but being pretty fuzzy on the details.
And then deciding what to keep and what to let go. And before I realize it, hours have passed and I've only gone through a couple of those boxes, unearthed just a few things, but enough things to change my sense of my own past and what it means going forward.
I know I have hidden the past from myself in many ways, and resisted opening those old boxes. And I know the toll it seems to take on me when I immerse myself in memory and recollection. But I'm not sure how completely I can live in the present or live my way into the future with all that stuff sitting around, needing to be sorted, waiting for some kind of attention from me.
I feel like an amnesiac, mostly because I sort of am. The fabric of memory is so thin, so flimsy and fragile around certain parts of my life that I feel like I don't know myself at all in some ways. Like there's been some magic trick that hides so much of who I was and maybe who I am, but I want to be done with trickiness, especially the kind I've created for myself. I don't want 'numb' to be my default position.
I don't know what to do about that, what I have to own of my past to own my present and future, but I'm pretty sure it's more than I have done so far. I'm pretty sure more is required of me, so I'm paying attention as best I can to notice and understand, and not let the sleepy waves of amnesia obliterate one more memory or keep me from being fully engaged.