I’ve always thought that some aspects of one’s life should be recorded and replayed time after time. In fact, if we think of the things adults tell about us whilst we are growing up, these stories are indeed replayed. That time when you fell from you bike, how much you pooped as a baby and about that day when you embarrassed your parents in front of everyone with your big mouth or cheeky behaviour. No matter whether you were a shy kid or a chatty one, there are always stories to be told about the person you once were and that you don’t quite remember to have been. The funny part is, perhaps, that when it comes our turn to tell that same frame our mums told the entire family and friends, the words will be shaped into different sentences, other compositions. Our picture of it won’t show much of the shame or the embarrassment, but more of the value of that memory in our story.
I happen to remember a lot about myself. Like little details and the order of events. Of course if you ask me what I ate for lunch last week I might say no, but whenever it comes to my childhood and adolescence things come to me crystal clear. Things that sometimes I wish I didn’t even think of, and others that I would trade a leg to live again. For a long time, I developed a sort of selective system inside my head where memories were catalogued into what mattered and what didn’t; what was pleasant and what was fun. The unpleasant ones were the black memories and they were always thrown in a box. The core memory files were those of a life as I wanted to remember, not as it really was.
If I address the blessings of having a good memory, I am going to tell you about the wonders of great parties and travels around the world. My greatest pride! I can describe you the great days I spent at the farm as a kid and the breathtaking sight of Whitehaven beach in Northern Australia. Swimming with nemos, sliding down waterfalls, riding horses and tasting exotic food on the streets of foreign towns. Sights, tastes, smells, heartbeat. I can still sense the same feelings from those at the time when each one of these things happened. I can close my eyes and still smell the seaweed while sitting on that boat anchored around the islands. I can describe to you in a hundred words how fast my heart pounded on my chest when those bunch of kids found a snake behind granny’s house and how much we laughed together in all those uncountable barbecues, wherever I happened to be. These memories are the ones that brings goosebumps, chicken skin and warmth to the heart. These are the ones to keep close and to repeat as much as I can.
The tears, the sorrows and the fear of the repetition belong to the curses of life. And yes, I call them curses. They are spells that seem to walk along with her in a daily and that together we try to work it out. They show everything that I should be afraid or scared of, bringing panic when all I need to do is to relax and enjoy. They are the things that made us afraid of the dark. These curses were brought through pain, misunderstandings or lies. Sometimes, all together in one. The excessive physical punishment, the repeated times I was taken as an adult whilst living on Earth for less than a decade, the lies I was told under justification of protection. All in the box, dressed in black.
So when it comes to the beginning of all of my memories and to telling you about them, perhaps the right start would be with “once upon a time, there was a little girl”, just like all the princess movies I watched as a little one. But, no. On this side, there’s never been a little girl and that is a very important side of us. No princess dresses were worn, no sweet bedtime stories were told. There was her and then there was me, and I was already an adult when it all started. Whenever I think of the things we’ve done together I get more and more convinced that perhaps it would have been better if we had met each other in a later stage in life. Perhaps a little more mature to be less reckless, more conscious and aware. The thing is, at the same time, that we needed each other. Most of all, she needed me. I was her protector, her shield. She was my innocence, my melancholia. I guess that this is the reason why my memories are also her memories. We created a version of us which brought a sense of completeness and freedom when all we saw was a hole in the puzzle.
For that and for more, I came to the conclusion that the little girl most people think to have known, in fact, never existed. At least truthfully on the inside. Life happened too early to her and, consequently, so did I. Together we brought up a different body, a freer mind and memories that makes us proud to tell. Together, we jumped out of airplanes in Australia, hiked through caves in Vietnam and climbed mountains in Brazil. We started almost two decades ago and we laughed, we cried and screamed and punched to survive. Maybe it all looks pretty on the outside, but that’s because we are pros in the system. We avoided anyone who would show up in black, or who would curse us with their memory spells. But most of all, we’ve never let the darkness inside shape the truth we’ve always wanted to keep in our smile.
It’s the scars she covers that unveil the horror of what was never to be told.
