My Treacherous Past

After spending some time on my laptop reading travel blog posts of a friend-of-friend, and looking at some of my old photos, I decide I've had enough.

I close the laptop briefly to gather my thoughts, a chance to reflect on the sudden disgust and regret that's bubbled up in me.

The photos flash before my mind's eye again, and I realise that I was feeling taunted by them. They represent memories that frolic about and tease me about happier times. I had looked at the photographs -either taken by me, or of me, or both - and ruefully grimaced "That feels like the last time of my life I was ever truly happy".

I tell myself that I know this is not true.
I know what my mind is like: it has an uncanny ability to summarise over-positively. Unless speaking of a particularly turbulent time of my life, my mind recalls everything as rainbows and sunshine and happiness, and glosses over (or leaves out entirely) any negative feelings or experiences that were present at that time.

It's a survival mechanism, I know. I am a healer. If I could make visible how well and how often this trick has put me back together, I would look like a patchwork doll. It probably accounts for the lifelong feeling of never really identifying with past versions of my self - I am remade so often, I'm not the same person for more than a group of years.

And it's this very lifesaving thing that bothers me now.

I look around me at my nest, something a past-self would have envied, and I make a face.
"Is this who I am now? Is this what I represent?"

I feel weak, and wasted.

Less than a decade ago I was - felt - remember feeling - seemed fearless.

I try to brush it off as a side-effect to my recent 30th. But I've never really been bothered by age or numbers, and I know this is just a convenient excuse; a way to avoid explaining my dysphoria should another person question it.

I recall adventures of recent times: physical challenges, and mental and emotional ones. I remember feeling uncertain and afraid.

"Was I always so hesitant?"
My memory fails me as I try to answer myself. It spits out the usual list of victories and triumphs and happy memories. When I try to force it to focus on something I know must have been hard, but not quite life upheaving, it refuses to give me any more than a cursory acknowledgement of tribulation.

This is where my diaries or old blogs play a part, and it is shame that I fell out of the habit for some years. When I read back, especially those entries that are so vague they only really depict my bad feelings and not the particular issue I was wrestling with at the time, I am amazed to see how anguished I had been... for I have no recollection of it now.

It's frustrating.

But it's also hopeful.

I sit and think about what this means, and how am I feeling now compared to half an hour ago.
Still bummed, but calmer. At least I know that when I do pull myself out of this rut, I won't have much memory of just how low I felt at the time until I read my own words back.

I look at the scars on my body and soul and think about how they came to be; how the bad things have failed to beat me, whether I remember them properly or not.
A fond proverb floats to mind and I smile ruefully at the fact that I only ever remember it in times like these:

This too shall pass.