One day, I decided to go through what I didn’t want to keep… because I felt lost. I put on some old music, I went up into the attic of memories. I sought to remember what I forgot. The things that I didn’t purposefully or intentionally forget. At first I felt nostalgic. I felt they breeze on the country wind on my face, and I smelled the evergreens. I remembered the old pickup truck, and the dusty dashboard. It was fun at first.
As the songs played, I unpacked more boxes of the past. I forgot that my mind held all of this storage. I found an old diary, I flipped through the pages. I began to cry. As the 90s country ballad played, I cried. I cried for my sister. I cried for my mom. I cried for myself. But I didn’t cry for my dad, I remember his disappointment when he looked across the table. Not at me, but at her. I could still see my sister’s wet eyes and red face as she pretended that the words that our father said didn’t hurt. I remembered the fights. The arguing. The yelling. I recalled all of the years. All of the hard years.
I remember the confusion. I felt the loneliness. The pitch black loneliness. I remember the nights where I layed awake. I was uncertain about the future, uncertain about tomorrow. I remembered the depression. My pillows were tear-stained, I remembered the moist fabric on my cheek. I remember running out of the house and into the field by the road. The walls of the house restrained me in a way that I couldn’t even breath.
I was wrong. I did purposefully and intentionally forget those things. I packed them away and stored them as if they were never a part of my life. I pretended that they weren’t there, although the memories always were there in the corner of my eye. They were there in the corner of my mind. I never did want to remember, and I never will want to remember. But I never can truly forget.