Memories

I went to my parents' house this weekend to go through my stuff.

My parents may or may not be moving. My philosophy was better to be safe than sorry. I'd rather spend a few days there going through everything I've ever saved than have them toss something that is extremely precious to me despite my having forgotten its existence.

I didn't get as much done as I'd hoped. Sadly, there was not enough time to go through The Toys. That will have to happen at another time. I am looking forward to the crates of Transformers and Care Bears and She-Ra's and Charmkins that await me.

I apparently used to live my life by a philosophy completely contrary to that to which I now subscribe. This behavior started somewhere around 9th grade and ended a few years ago. Thankfully there is little evidence other than that photographic of my existence prior to high school. Without distress I was able to toss photos of my 5th grade class and the glamor shots I'd set up of myself and my friends as 3rd graders. Ah, the 80s makeup. I suppose I didn't throw these away because I've become less sentimental. It's most likely because I don't want there to be a record of this behavior.

Starting in the ninth grade I began to save everything. Notebooks, photos, class assignments, cutouts from magazines, every card I received. These things, luckily, were very organized and I was able to go through them without difficulty.

It was hard, though, to throw away my high school notebookes - piles of Physiology, History, Calculus, Western Civilization, and Global Studies! It was difficult not because of sentimental attachment, but because of the wealth of information contained within! I can't believe how much I've forgotten. I quickly went through these notebooks and couldn't stop thinking "I can't believe I used to know these things." A deluded part of me thinks that if I re-read these notebooks, I can instantly reclaim all of this knowledge that has since disappeared. Maybe. The likelihood of my ever having time to go through these notebooks? Slim.

It was heartbreaking for another reason. The notes, man. The notes! I looked through my Physiology notebook and couldn't stop laughing. There was a note that read something like this:

I saw Brian today.

(stop. someone writing something to me in their notebook.)

He was in his computer class. I walked in there and he was just sitting
there. I'd copied down an Ogden Nash poem for him that I found about not
liking to have your picture taken. I gave it to him and he didn't say
anything! I asked him if he was in that class and he just said "yeah." I
just don't know what his deal is.

(stop. someone writing something to me in their notebook.)

WHATEVER.

I'd love to have gone through all of the notebooks and kept the notes and made a short film based on them. Or a graphic novel. Or start publishing them on the blog. They are hilarious.

I kept creative writing and reports. I realize now that I was (am still) insane. I have binders upon binders of fiction I wrote in my spare time. I thought this was normal behavior at the time. While most bored kids in suburbia turned to drugs, I turned to the computer and wrote epics of soap-opera-ian proportions for my friends. I'd stay up all night typing. Some of the stories I kept secret. Others I shared. They were episodic and overwrought and rich in melodrama and fantastic. I kept those. I didn't keep the similarly overwrought sketch books involving daily strips of my friends and I. Sometimes we were superheroes. Sometimes we were fighting crimes. Mostly we were dazed romantics with missions involving boys.

Dear god I was insane.

I miss this, though. I miss the free time. I miss the focus.

I am so glad that all of this insanity has been redirected to Blogger.

There were a lot of photos from high school that I tossed. Remembering the awkwardness doesn't require assistance from photographs. It's incorporated into my being as fierce insecurity. I don't ever need to be reminded of the dress I wore to the ring dance or the tight knit group of people that has completely disbanded or the hope I had back then.

Tossed at the dump.

I kept the yearbooks. I'll never look at them. I don't need to remember myself back then and I don't care to remember anyone I knew back them. I kept them, instead, because my progeny may someday want to see the unforgiveable outfit I wore when voted Most Artistic in 8th grade.

I also found my high school diploma!

And my 9th grade Introduction to Physical Science Lab Notebook, with experiments on "Calibrating the Equal Arm Balance" and "Distillation of Wood" and "Determining the Volume of a Solid." I had to keep that. That notebook represents the moment at which everything went wrong.

College is another story. I didn't keep all of the notes. It seems that I, at some point, went through this process and kept only the notes of cool classes. I still had all of my Neuro notebooks. I got rid of them. I kept my Molecular and Cellular Biology Class Note Companion in case I ever forget what RNA is. I kept the hundreds of papers I read for my Honors Thesis. I kept the Thesis presentation itself. I threw away a lot of journal articles that I'd love to read again that I'll never look at even though I am distressed that I've forgotten their content.

I can't believe I ever knew all of this.

It's so sad.

The memories themselves aren't sad. It's the change that has occurred that is depressing. Loss of innocence, loss of intelligence, loss of free time blah blah blah.

I apparently printed out every email I received freshman year, saved every letter and card in a binder, and kept every note that a boy left me in my room.

I think I took photos three times in college. I threw them away. I don't need to have a visual of First College Boyfriend. I only need the feeling of excitement about its starting and the pain of how I ended it. I don't need to see his face.

I do, however, need to keep his letters and cards and notes. I am a lover of love letters. Every serious boyfriend I've had up until D has supplied me with piles upon piles of love letters. I adore them. I love actual writing. I love notes on paper. I love silly drawings and desperate attempts at reconciliation and written expressions of longing and adoration.

On Saturday afternoon, reading a summer break letter from First College Boyfriend actually made me giddy. It felt good. I found a letter written by High School Boyfriend, that I received in college, that said "I miss how it feels when you touch me" and I actually felt it. Ridiculous! These things are ancient and sappy and completely juvenile, but they were written for me and they are mine and they mean something for a reason I can't understand.

I found letters from Sister and Brother that they'd written to me while I was in college. Sister read, out loud, a letter she wrote to me when she was about 13 and she said "Leah, why did you even like me back then?" I said "I liked you because you wrote me letters. I'm not throwing this away." "You should," she said. "I won't," I responded, "because it still means something to me."

I threw away all of the drawings given to me by my little cousins, who are now in college themselves.

I threw away my acceptance letter and admittance packet from Harvard's Ph.D. program in Neuroscience because I'm now certain I'll never be going there. That was difficult.

I kept my college diploma and graduation cap and gown, because D wants to dress up as college graduates for Halloween and march in the parade.

I kept sticker books and Busy Bears and my deranged eraser collection and not everything Star Wars related.

I got an email from Father this morning saying:

"I was at the dump yesterday and was throwing away stuff and noticed that I was throwing away full photo albums with pics of your prom, Billy Joel..etc. It was very sad to be throwing away your past...I asked mom if that was what I was supposed to be doing and she said yes...it was sad..very."

I wrote back and told him he wasn't throwing away my past. There doesn't need to be a record of things to remember them.

I think I value words more than photos. Photos are oftentimes set up, redundant, reflecting outlier events such as proms and vacations. They're not representative of certain times or phases. Writing is accurate. It reflects what's important to people at a certain point in time. It has mood, depth, honesty.

Photos aren't honest because they are contrived. This is why I love candids. Candids are how things actually are.

I have much reading awaiting me in the future. I'm very excited to remember how I was as a college freshman. When I read them, I'll throw away letters from people I no longer know. I'll keep the ones that still make me feel something. I'll laugh at the drama and at what seemed important back then. Hopefully I'll go from 5 3-inch-binders to one. I'll add that binder to the piles of journals I keep for no apparent reason.

I wonder if, when I am 40, I'll find a binder with this blog in it and wonder if I should throw it away. I don't think I will. I'll probably read it and start crying and say "You know, when I was younger I used to live in New York City and it was an amazing time," but I'll only have my account because nobody writes letters anymore. I save emails from D but it's not the same. They say things like "I bought the lamp!" and "love you." They're not loaded because I am not hopeful. I don't write love letters because I know they'll only hurt some day. They'll hurt until there's someone else writing me love letters, when I could then look back on the old ones and smile. But I don't really want there to be anyone else writing me love letters, so better that I not write down how much I love him and scare him away.

It's a weird way to spend a day - looking at who and how you used to be.