memory lane

Somedays, I spend time lost in the hallways of beige and white. I get lost in the beeping, the paging, the sound of wheelchair wheels squeaking and bed wheels rattling down the halls. Somedays I spend long periods of time staring at the foot of the bed, the cream colored metal and white waffled bedspreads covering the bottom of my feet. Sometimes the sounds of quiet footsteps, whispers and hushed TVs is too loud to handle. Sometimes the swooshing of the on/off switch on the tv or the "click, swoosh" of the channels turning is mind consuming in volume. I taste the saline, the creamy, thick, banana mouth wash followed by the burning, swishing of peppermint mouthwash and the ice cold feeling of an iodine swab. I am jolted by the scent of bodies that have not soaked in a bath for months, the hushed voices of doctors gathered in hallways and the loud buzzing of the nurses pages. And thats it. Those memories repeat. Daily. Several times per day.

 I blank after that. No amount of time consumed in this tunnel, this memory treadmill gets me any further than those memories. And the moment a new memory reveals even a glimps of itself, my body shuts off. I am brought back to this day, this moment of life that is far from those days. I have tried, desperately for years on end to remember all those moments. Pleasant or not, that is my childhood- part of me. A part of me that everyone.else.knows in grave detail and I not in any detail. It is gut wrenching. To be told "Its better that way" is like telling someone "its good you dont know who you are or why you are the way you are. Its better that way." but its not. Its scary. Its consuming and I want to remember. I need to remember.

My daughters skipping and jumping and tapping is enough most days to send me to a padded room. It gets under my skin, makes it crawl, makes me want to throw up. Its the repeated noises. The alarm clock, the oven timer, a base in a song, the ringing of a phone. They set me off. The crinkling of wrapping paper on Christmas morning, The chatting of too many voices at once, the sound of squeaky grocery store carts. Its too much, it makes my insides curdle and wince. But why? What is it about those things that cause me so much anxiety and pain? I can only assume its all related.

Maybe not, maybe I am an over sensitive victim of the over stimuli we as American's get on a daily basis. I doubt it. But its possible. I'd love to attempt hypnosis.....some sort of reading of my medical documents, written interviews of the stories of those who were an intricate part of those days....the ones who were close to me. But could I trust that they be honest, tell me the truth, the good, the bad, the painful?  Doubtful. As humans  we sugar coat by nature, want others to believe in the beauty and glitter that maybe never was. Problem is: I realize my childhood was short. It was until age 6. Thats it. I get that. But what about the other 8 years that I dont remember? What about age 6-14? Where did THOSE years go? Where are THOSE memories? I'd love to hear your stories. My memories through your eyes, the stories you remember about those years of my life. It would mean the world to me to receive them. All of them, every detail, every smile, every tear. Everything you remember about me. About you- how it affected you. I want the whole story- I'd love to compile them, read them in a group and try hard to remember. If I cant, maybe your memories can become mine. And because if something happens to my memories that only you hold- if you don't share them...then they are trapped forever, just like I am. Trapped. Write them. Send them to me. Please.