My first memory might not even be a memory. See, there’s a picture of me being held by my uncle in our backyard, me pointing to the back corner of the yard, my uncle smiling and looking along with me. I’m probably three. And it’s because of the picture that I remember it.
And yet. I swear I remember it. I can picture the back corner of the yard, can remember pointing. So either I don’t remember it except for the picture, or I only remember it because the picture brought back the memory and solidified it.
Who knows?
My uncle is a kind, kind man. He went to Berkeley during the 60’s, participated in the protests, met his future wife, and developed the ideals that would lead to a thirty-plus year career with the EPA. He worked hard to clean up the smog in LA, traveling weekly from the Bay Area down to SoCal. He always took an interest in what I was doing, even when he clearly had no personal interest or investment. He raised a son who turned out equally as nice. The type of kid who would get a shitty birthday present and pretend it was exactly what he wanted and never once drop the charade. Now my cousin is raising his own beautiful son who I’m sure will turn out to be far kinder than I can ever hope to be.
I don’t know if writing my memories down will help. I have this vague notion that getting them down in one place will somehow help me organize my thoughts and recognize my patterns, help me figure out why I am who I am.
I also have this idea to take some of my memories and split them up between “The Truth” and “The Fantasy,” combining reality with what I wish would’ve happened at the time.
Eh. Who fucking knows?
Sex And Depression 