Moving. Moving on.

I moved again. I packed up my little house of fur and things, and trekked to another place to fill with echoes.

In the moving, I found all these old report cards from when I was a child. 7 or 8 years old. And even then, I was not kind to myself.

Hidden in between all the normal silliness of my nature – Jessie likes to talk, Jessie should entertain, Jessie should pay more attention in class, Jessie tries really hard and is a hard worker – in between all of that…

Jessie lacks self confidence.

Jessie is unsure of herself too often.

Jessie is loud.

How can an 8 year old already be so consumed with doubt, that they start to find ways to hide their nature.

How on earth can an 8 year old already be told that she does not properly fit the mold? To try harder. To fit in.

In the memory of all the things that I hold on to – I can’t remember what made me this way. Was I born like this? Doubting. Consumed with never being enough. Tortured by the power I give to others.

I just know that as I was then – so I am now.

I try really, really hard. But I give my power away too often. Too eagerly. Too quickly.

So I find solace in the solitude.

In fur.

In echoes.

In silence.

 

terry-pratchett-quotes

Time removed from Memory

Sometimes, you just have to write things down in order for them to make sense. For whatever reason, your brain gets too full, too convoluted, too bogged down and the endless circle of thought and rethought is… well, endless. Allot of this blog will be about me trying to make sense of my rethoughts, amongst other things.

I have this slightly weird memory issue. As in I don’t have one. While I remember various parts of my life, some mundane and some not so much, huge gaps of time are lost to me. When I am not missing a particular memory, then I am quite content to believe that this space in my recollection of time is a blessing. However, there are times when I intrinsically know that I am missing huge chunks of a childhood, a life, a relationship, a period in time – and the sense of loss is profound.

I do not think that this loss of time is due to any massive trauma or actual choice that I made. I think it is just a part of me, and oddly, my sister. As much a part of our genetic line as our freckles or particular sense of humour.

What I do remember is difficult to articulate. It is taste and love and isolation and running around in an unseasonal and atypical snowfall, hotdogs in front of the SABC’s big round and ugly test pattern, Macguyver in black and white, the freedom of the ignored, horses, dogs and  fantasy.

I believe that some of what I remember is absolute truth, and some is based on the stories of truth that families tell each other over many years.

I was born in 1975, a very late edition to an already established middle class family consisting of a working dad, a housewife mom, a 12 year old brother and a 9 year old sister.  I don’t know if I was planned or if I was a glipsie – not that it really matters, late is late and the reality of being born late to a family already being torn my division meant that I spent huge amounts of time alone. So to say that I didn’t really fit is putting it mildly.

I have overwhelmingly good memories. All of them in isolation to each other. The smell of a horse. The freedom of a slightly wild child on a farm. A neighbour child and myself being naughty, as only farm children can be. My first fireworks. Fresh milk. Homemade biltong. The smell of my dad. The laughter of the workers. A snake.

However, too often the gaps are telling. Or maybe the missed memory is telling. For example – we moved from the farm to Cape Town when I was 13. But in my memory of the farm I was always young. I am always young. I don’t remember being a ‘tween’ as it were. My memories of the time are confused and jumbled and I think I remember things out of time.

It is a very odd sense of being. To this day, my memory works like that. Not in any obvious way, and I never really realize it until someone sends an offhand comment my way: “Remember when…”

And I really don’t.

I sometimes wonder if it hasn’t left an indelible mark on me somehow. A shadow across my personality if you will. Perhaps in the not remembering, that is why I doubt and second guess myself always.

Then again, perhaps in the not remembering, I am protecting myself?

I chose to believe that in the not remembering, I am making space for awesome.