Waterlogged {intro}

When I was a child I would spend hours under water. I lived isolated from most other children so I would run wild through the forest to what I called the wishing well. It was a small spring in the back of my childhood home. I played a game with myself in that spring by holding my breath and going under water. I’d think of all my dreams and wishes and wait until I couldn’t breath any longer and then count till ten until I finally came up for air. As a child, I truly believed this action was the key to all my happiness.  Little did I know that it caused slight brain damage to my temporal cortex causing memory loss and distortion. As I’ve grown into adulthood I’ve developed systems to help hold onto life’s high and low points as they pass by me.

I collect things. I pick up pieces, remnants, and tokens of all my experiences. My pockets are always full. It’s as if my memory is a sieve and it’s always so tragic for my personal history when my pockets break into holes. I can never remember to mend the rips and tears until I’m out on my next adventure. If I were smart, I would be selective on which memory tokens I put in which pocket. Maybe subconsciously I do. Sometimes life is difficult to understand. Those things that happen can be so confusing for a girl who has no recollection of her past. Memory loss during my formative years equates to the formative years of Christianity when those who didn’t understand the new attitudes would whitewash beautiful frescos and burn Christian Icons. The same goes for me. When I am confused by the actions of others, my emotions shut down and I become more selective on which tokens I choose to bring home, pack away, and catalogue in my personal historical archive. 

During my teenage years, my father gave me a camera. The first rule about the camera was to put the strap around my neck. The next rule was to go explore. This machine was the perfect tool for me and my damaged brain to archive my life as it passed by. Now I sit in my little home with shelves built to the ceiling on almost every wall filled with boxes of trinkets, ticket stubs, photos, buttons, cards, notes, rocks, and anything that can trigger the slightest feeling of time and place all shuffled and mixed up.

Sometimes I can’t sleep. The dark void in my head gets frightening. It feels like death when I can’t remember how I got to where I am or where I am going. It’s nights like these that I have to turn on the light and start rummaging through the boxes of token triggers. The only problem is that the boxes get shuffled on the shelves along with the contents inside. Memories of my early childhood may be stacked next to photos from my college years, but it’s all right because it’s all me, my life. All these things have shaped who I am today. Even if I don’t remember my identity the clearest, I use how others respond to me as context clues on my character and attitude.

On the walls not filled with shelves of boxes I display all the things I love. I try to keep the negative out. There is no sense in holding onto things that make me upset. It is a special gift to have a damage memory. Erasing the bad is so easy for a girl like me. Brain damage can be a positive experience once you can take control of your situation and shape it to your advantage.