Athazagoraphobia

Dear blinking cursor,

In this life, not many things scare me.

If someone came to break into my house, I'd know how to shoot my gun. If I gained a little weight, and that scale inched its way to "heavy," I know I'd still be okay. If I've got no money left in my bank account, I'd learn to cope. I can kill spiders, I'm not afraid to speak in public, and I've even made my own attempts at confrontation when I needed to.

But losing my memory is definitely on the list of fears. Maybe even a phobia. I hate forgetting things. Especially the things that are so meaningful to me. There's just something about remembering that brings people back to life.

A scent of love spell can tumble you back in an instant. A faint song in the background of a music store can take you back many, many years. And sometimes, just by a reminder of a single picture, you can relive exactly what happened that day. I can still remember the first day I secretly fell in love with Spiderman.... it wasn't that long ago.

But I worry that I'll forget some things along the way. Every day that I wake up, I am a day older. Old memories are erased and long gone. I like living my life with good times to look back on. It adds depth to my happiness. What good is life if you don't have a single laugh or tear to show for it? Hands down, probably one of the more memorable years of my life had to be the bumbling years I spent in Michigan. No longer under my parents' wing, I roamed free (as much as the Adventist system would allow) and explored. Independence, responsibility (or lack thereof) and self-sufficiency were my egos.

But more than that, it was a place that I met and knew the world's greatest people. Funny how a rural Siberian-wintered place could bring people together. I don't like my memory to fail me:

The place of snowboard accidents, blacklight cafes, heartbreaks, 2 AM dunkin donuts, rock bands, weddings, car wrecks, DDRs, tea and sympathies and secret crushes with the world's potential to be your best friend. There's especially those quite obscure friendships/wishful romances that happened - or didn't happen - that becomes part of the "what ifs" and "should'ves" referenced in a joke or some part of an awkward attempt at humor.

Timing was never right - and that part hasn't changed. If only we'd said something sooner - or said something at all - perhaps things might have been different. I've been teased that I like to live in the past. Actually, I highly disagree. Highly. My past is worth remembering, for sure. How could I not?

Squeezing a leg into a-size-too-small zip up boots ("suck it in, Vimie!") is highly entertaining. There's nothing funnier than hearing your friend suffer uncomfortably after a binge of fried pickles. And what's more knee-slapping than a group of fully grown, intelligent people trying to squeeze a dead fish on the back of a sofa mattress? ( I guess you just had to be there).

Ah, these memories.

How they let me live.

How I would cease to exist without them.

Sometimes I think I should've been more of a pack rat and kept more things. Like maybe keeping a M.A.S.H. game in a memory box, for example. (How amazing would that have been to be presented by that piece of yellow paper after 50 years?).

Athazagoraphobia: it's mine and I claim it. Perhaps I should be more motivated to keep a journal - a proper one at that, not some silly Dear-Diary-Judy-Jetson moments. I just don't like my memory to fail me.

Because my history?

It's too good.

Sincerely,
The girl who bought ikea boxes for memory storage