I want to be positive and say that memory is my friend, but what I really want to say is that memory– memorizing things, not memory, is an old nemesis. Memorizing things has always been a fight for me. I’ve spent my entire education and all of my adult life awestruck by people who can remember the year that something happened, where a street is located, names of authors of books they’d read, math formulas, the periodic table, the multiplication table, names of plants, just names period.
Things happened to me before or after I graduated high school; before or after I was married; before or after I had my kids; around the 1800s, around the 20s, back in the day. Simple.
You know what drives me absolutely murderous? When someone’s telling a story and they stop to remember the exact year that it happened. These people are fanatics. First of all, who cares what the exact year was that you went to that concert? They always think I care, though. Even after I say, “It’s fine, you don’t have to remember,” they insist on trying to figure it out anyway. Why?
Either they think I’m just being nice and that I actually do want to know the exact year that something happened to them, or they’re self-indulgent fanatics who use us (the people who could care less about what year it was?) as kidnap victims to get to their own crackhead agenda. They just can’t let it go. They’re addicted to pinning down the exact date.
I’ve watched friends that I love turn into possible murder victims in the time it took to ponder what year she met her boyfriend’s brother’s roommate.
I’ve watched good stories rot before my eyes because the storyteller just needed to pause a few moments (Was it ‘97? No, I think it had to be around 2000. That seems too late, probably ‘99) to figure out the exact year that the story took place. Nobody cares. Except for you, of course. I can’t even figure out why you care! Tell the blasted story. You know what? Forget the story. I don’t even care anymore. You’ve had your chance.
I’ve got things trying to get into my brain and things trying to get the hell out, and let me tell you, it’s like Grand Central Station in there, only dirtier. Knowing the exact date of some event will take up too much room in my head. Actually, that’s a lie. It only takes up my time. I’ll forget the date by the time you’re done with your sentence, so please just tell the story and spare me. Spare all of us.
These are the people who would write autobiographies the size of War and Peace. Unless you’re Tolstoy, no one wants the depth of detail you’re trying to offer and/or force into our brains. I’ve gone many years of my life suffering from this scourge and saying nothing, but today I’m speaking out for all the silent victims.
Are you one of those people who feel a sick compulsion to pin down the exact year that things have happened in your life or the world? Have you been the victim of one of these characters?
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My name is Lyz-Stephanie and I want to inspire you to be more connected to yourself and the world, to find beauty in simple pleasures, and to have more adventures. Every day we can do something to make our lives happier and richer, make our minds more active and engaged. I’m on the journey. Will you join me?