―Khalil Gibran
We live out of the suitcase of our past, so a man without memory is a nobody.
I've read of cases of traumatic brain injury where somebody lost so much of their past they couldn't do up their shoelaces or find their way home. It's sad, but so is what happened to me.
I discovered I can't rely on my memory because over time I seem to have rewritten it. I don't know if this is true of everyone or just something particular to me.
The problem is I have a faulty view of my history and it makes me wonder if I can even be sure of my true identity.
I clued into this mess because I was having night terrors--flashbacks from my past that really disturbed me. So, I tried using lucid dreaming as a technique to control my dreams and help me manage my nightmares.
But it seems my nightmares are actually my subconscious talking back to me, asserting the truth of what really occurred, not the revised version I've planted in my head.
I embarked on this journey to try to restore peace inside me, but if I'm finally able to fix me, maybe I can even salvage my relationship with Emma.
I need answers to this whole business of rewriting memories so I'm doing something I vowed I'd never do—I’m asking my friend, Nat Sawyer, for advice.
I know Nat is not the most discreet guy in the world and has a weakness for alcohol, but he's finishing up his Master in Psychology and it would be a shame to let all that knowledge go to waste.
I arrange to meet him for lunch at the Hart House Pub knowing that food and free beers will be irresistible to him.
Sure enough, Nat is outside the pub waiting, eager to take full advantage of my generosity.
I clap him affectionately on the shoulder. "So did you make it back home oaky after our night out at the Wheatsheaf?"
"I ended up taking the subway because Sofia, our waitress, took pity on me. She gave me so much free beer, I can hardly believe I made it home in one piece."
Red flags went up inside me. "You're saying Rosie spent time chatting with you and dropping beers?"
"Yeah, I thought at first she was interested in me, but she kept asking questions about you—I don't know how you do it, but you must be some kind of chick magnet."
This was definitely not good. Last thing I needed was a reprise of Sofia and me.
"What type of questions did she ask?"
"Oh, just the usual stuff--like where you live and where you hang out."
"Tell me you didn't give her my cell number, Nat."
"I could tell you that," he said sheepishly, "but I can't lie. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse—a whole tray of draft. Who am I to deny the universe?"
At this point our waitress arrived. "What will it be guys? We've got a special—burger, fries and jug of draft."
Nat's eyes lit up and I decided to let him have his way and I'd settle for soup and sandwich. At least I'd be guaranteed he'd talk—free draft primes his pump and after consuming a few, he'll spit up all he knows. I only hope he didn't tell Sofia anything of consequence.”
A few minutes later, our waitress is back with Nat’s jug of draft and after a few glasses he’s mellow enough to ask him anything.
”I was wondering about memory, Nat. Does everybody rewrite their memories?”
Nat leans back in his chair, one hand firmly glued to his glass of draft. “Sure, everybody does it because the brain is constantly editing memories and updating them.”
“Updating them? I thought memories were kind of locked into the brain.”
“He shook his head. “That’s not what researchers find. They’ve discovered the brain updates memories with new information to make them more relevant to us now.”
“Why the hell would the brain do that?” I frowned.
“Well, the brain’s not a tape recorder and even people with exceptional autobiographical memories are prone to this. You see, the brain doesn’t care about cherished memories of your past or your childhood—it’s more concerned about your survival and helping you make good choices in the present.”
The food arrived and Nat tucked into his burger and fries as if he didn’t stuff himself with wings and beer the night before.
He seemed to have a hollow inside him that only food and booze could fill—a kind of, Feed me and I’m Yours need that made him susceptible to any kind culinary or intoxicating bribe.
It was a primal urge where man is reduced to the bare necessities like a cave mah in search of fire and warmth.
I kind of envied Nat his simple life—a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou. Me? I was too sophisticated for that, but all it’s done for me is left me with a myriad of haunting memories and a past that eludes and no longer defines me.
And now maybe Sofia is coming back to haunt me…
Lovely, just lovely.