A Trivial Comedy for serious people archives

The Memory Machine

Every now and then, when I reread my journal, I realize with horror how terribly incomplete my accounts are. Even more disturbing, I am slowly forgetting things that happened when I started this journal. Reading the journal brings them back, but only somewhat and only vaguely. These memories are only dimly felt, and they are the ones that actually got recorded. There must have been thousands of incidents that have slipped through my fingers, into that muddy, inconsistent mess of my long term memory.

I probably have something of an uncomfortable obsession with my mental health. It might not be all that unwarranted - it's not as though my maternal family is the picture of mental health. I spend a fair amount of time worrying that every burst of energy I feel is just the manic swing of manic depression, and that my anti-depressants aren't enough, and that I should see a therapist more often. I know, full well, that there are many people in much worse shape than myself, but I also know that things with me aren't as healthy as they could be.

I spend a lot of time trying to remember whether or not I was "really" ill, and I suspect more than ever, I write to remember. I certainly let most people know when I'm not feeling well. I cry in public, and I tell almost anyone about the sad mess my family has left behind. You want to know some really dreadful things my aunt said to me once? Can I tell you again about my parent's relationship? How many times can I tell someone that I called a suicide hotline? You need only to ask - I'm the original open book. But what good is it if I don't remember anything?

But every now and then, my memory is jolted by something harsh and sudden and it comes back in a flash. I remember feeling desperately sad. I remember what it felt like, and I can nearly reproduce the feeling. In the beginning of the year, right after September 11, I could barely leave my bed. I was sick with a cold, but I was also crying constantly. Anything that went wrong made me burst into tears. I cried for the first time in months, and even at meal times. Broken umbrellas, the movie I wanted being checked out, minor disappointments sent me into uncontrollable tears. I can control sobs, but I couldn't help it when my eyes grew wet and suddenly, in the middle of the library, I realized I was crying. I hadn't been on anti-depressants since April of my senior year of highschool (That would be April 2000, I believe) and I seriously wanted to stop being in school. I didn't want to go home, but I didn't want to be in school. I wanted to stop everything, do nothing. I had only wished that once before, and that was in April of 2001 when I moved out on my first roommate.

I wanted to go home. Late at night, in my best friend's dorm room, I called my mother and sobbed into the phone. It was a week after the 11th. "Let me come home," I cried. "I want to go home. I'm sick. I miss you. I want to go home." She yelled at me, in a tone halfway between worry and anger. She thought I was being stupid, and I could hear that. "You don't want to come home - it would take you forever and it's terrible to travel when you're sick. What good would coming home do you?" I was so angry with her that I hung up on her, as my friend called her a "heinous bitch" which felt about accurate. "I cannot think of any other reason your mother would refuse to see you when you are sick, and homesick, and four hours away. Clearly, she is a heinous bitch." I called my mother back, and laughed through my tears, and inquired after my father and my cat and all the small things we usually talk to each other about.

My mother was worried, and called my Dean. I cannot tell you how much I love my Dean. She is small, with glasses and curly black hair. Everyone says she is the "ineffectual" one but if this is so, I'd like to meet the effective deans because she does everything I need her to do. I showed up at my Dean's office, and bawled and sobbed and said that I didn't feel like being at school but my classes kept me going and my friends were beautiful human beings. It was a tumbling out of everything. I barely remember what she did, but it made me feel so much less the hopeless case. "You belong here," she said. "Your classes are perfect for you, and they are helping you. I'm not worried about your academic success here." At the end, she asked if she could give me a hug. I didn't want to get her sick, but she gave me a hug anyway, coming up barely to my rib cage.

So, I started seeing the psychiatrist and a therapist. The therapist was alright - I don't think she realized how awful I was feeling the first time I met her (I had gone in to see the doctor about my cold, and I started crying and they wouldn't let me leave the health center) and just told me to just read Harry Potter. After a while, I felt like I was boring her (It made me laugh, my therapist at home said "You never bore me"). My psychiatrist is a beautiful woman, brusque but not scary. I often prefer her counsel to my therapist.

Clearly I must think that painful situations are the only ones I need to remember by writing. I'll try to come up with something happier, I guess. But I do think it's a good story, because it ended well and I stayed in school for two whole semesters more than I thought I could. This is why I love my Dean and my psychiatrist and my best friend. They are good to me. Umbrellas haven't made me cry in a good long while, now.

2002-08-13, the memory machine

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