This one is difficult because I don't really think about not remembering things. I have a very good memory unless it's trauma-blocked. However, I do remember, when I was in my mid-20s, my sister, Kathy, would often say, "Do you remember when..." and then continue with a story of which I had no recollection. I would wait until she was finished, then say, "No. I don't remember that." For a long time I just thought the blank spots in my memory were things that were unimportant. I understand now that those existed because, however benign they might be, they were linked, somehow, to things that caused me distress when I remembered them.
There was a time when I sought to recover many of the memories. This was triggered by the discovery of a box filled with items that belonged to me, things I collected as a youth. There were letters and photos and mementos, but I was very upset by the box because I didn't have any memory of saving the items, and some of them came from people I didn't remember corresponding with. I sorted through the box, becoming more and more agitated. It was clear the people knew me well. Why didn't I remember them?
In addition to the box, my yearbooks from high school were nearby. The anxiety increased as I read notes from friends citing events I did not recollect. To make matters worse, some of those notes were posted near photos of me participating in the events. There were some trophies and awards I didn't remember winning and stories and poems by me that felt as if I was reading them for the first time.
In the end, I packed everything back into the box, drove to a nearby rest area, and threw it all away. I remember my mother being very upset that I would do such a thing. To me, it felt like the only way regain equilibrium in my life. Driving away from the boxes and books felt like salvation. I knew where I was going. There were no gaps in my current life. The past could stay in the past.
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