Memories of No one*

My mind is a weird place, both to inhabit and to describe to others. I have no way of relating to people who describe the world in just words, because, to me, thoughts and emotions are images on a reel, like the Cinematic Records in "Black Butler". This comes with the added difficulty that I have a very hard time separating memories from imagination. Unless I have photos to back up what I remember, I can't tell the difference between what happened and what I dreamt happened. Add in the fact that I've been through the wringer with gaslighting and physical abuse, and I have to have people I can trust to ask if I remember things correctly. I can talk about what happened to me in the past mostly because I can't really tell the difference. Sure, I can say "I have a hard time speaking in front of a group because of the humiliation I suffered from bullies" and my brain and my anxiety will confirm its truthfulness, but I no longer have an emotional reaction when I think about said humiliation. I no longer seek retribution and I no longer get angry if I meet any of the bullies.  I have the same response to that pain as I do when thinking about the nightmares I remember.

As I now get ready to move from Ireland back to Sweden, it opens up the possibility that I won't be able to tell with certainty if anything I've experienced here is actually real. I have photos and I have souvenirs, but will that be enough to quell the sensation of waking up from a dream? I don't know. I hope it will. This past year has been so much fun. Sure, my room mate could use some serious social therapy and I've been just as out of luck in the job department as I was before I moved here. However, being away from the pressure from society, the shaming from the Employment Agency and Welfare Office (I wonder if they know that shaming someone is the least effective motivator available), and the feeling of inadequacy I experienced in Sweden, I've managed to get a working foundation for myself. The memory of being on a daily dose of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication is already settling into "Are you sure that wasn't a bad dream?" territory and maybe this nagging dread I feel when thinking about my room mate will join my other bad memories in a faded lull between memories and imagination. In just one year, I've learned to control my social anxiety, to rely on Boy when my general anxiety and chronic depression gets to be too strong, and to trust my own judgement, both when it comes to decision about my life and what my brain can do.

And one day, many years from now, I might look back at all this and wonder if it was all just a dream, something I made up, or if this uncertainty is just something that's part of me and something I can control by photos and people I can trust.

DFTBA


*Title taken from the "Bleach" movie of the same name.