The fallacy of an impeccable memory

I’m the sort of person who doesn’t rely on anyone. Doesn’t wait for someone to ask if I have eaten or if I am doing ok or if I need help. I’m the sort that people ask for help of. I’m the sort that does things on her own. I’m the sort that doesn’t wait.

I’m also the sort that doesn’t forget. If someone goes out of their way to care for me, they make a permanent spot in my heart. They stay.

I wrote this about myself a while back. Now, it’s become a lie. At least the second part of it has. If I were a Game of Thrones character, my characters title would be “Uzma, the One who Forgets”. When I go through my old posts, I feel like a different person wrote them. A person I don’t remember being. A better, unselfish, naive person who is not me.

I read a lot and a recurrent theme in the books I read rely on the character’s memories of their younger self and I think to myself, “That can’t be accurate. No one remembers what events passed on the night of April 16th, 1995. Not me, not you, not if the memory is supposed to be a happy one, or a scary one, or a traumatic one. It does not matter. I don’t remember who I was, what I was thinking, the names of people, the color of their clothes, and hair, and skin, and the shape of their eyes. I don’t remember anything except for a fleeting feeling of knowing that something happened because it feels right. How are these characters capable of remembering things that they as kids didn’t even realize would have been traumatizing to their adult selves?

The only real memories that are absolutely, startlingly clear in my hear are the embarrassing ones. The ones that I can recall instantly, and with a clarity that makes me feel like I am reliving them; the ones that make me cringe to the core of my being.

“Few things are more deceptive than memories” – The Shadow of the Wind

People don’t remember what u say to them, they remember how u make them feel.
My friend said this to me yesterday. It isn’t the first time someone’s said this to me. I’ve told myself this many times over too. Our mind is so very good at gist, at feelings. At the end to the day, they’re all that remain. The exact words, the looks, the gestures, the intonation, the expression, it all goes away. What remains is the way you made another person feel. It’s surprising how much we rely on just these feelings to judge another person. Ask a person for a direct judgments and they can never tell you exactly what they said or did to make you not like them, it’s just the bitter feeling they left that makes you dislike them. It’s no one thing. It’s just the impression.

We form friendships based on these. We fall in love based on these feelings. Our entire lives operate on these. What if this system is as flawed as we know it is when we read about it. Isn’t there a way to fix it?

Should we care to fix it? Should we hold grudge against people for something we think they did, that they don’t and/or have a completely different memory of? I don’t even remember the person I used to be and if I do, I think to myself how I had the energy to be so good since I am now so much worse!? Could it be that the person I hold a grudge against is also no longer the person they were? So, how can I hold a grudge against someone who isn’t who they were?

Reading between the eyes

I believe that every time a person opens their mouth and speaks; or picks up a pen and writes; or converses and passes information in any way, they let a part of them escape. No matter how hard they try to hide it. Behind fictional words, behind humor, behind body language; the truth peeks out. Shows what people really think. Show people who they really are. Show what motivates them.

I don’t know if I am the only one who can see this or if there are others who are as perceptive about these things as I am.

Every flick of the hair, every light touch to the arm, every sneaky look, every word they say. It’s like people are open books that I can just read whenever I feel like. And it’s not like I’m overconfident, smug or conceited about this ability. Even I give out the same information every time my mouth opens. Even without knowing people know that I know what makes them tick. Most people get scared of me. No one likes me looking into their heads. They attribute it to intelligence. But is it really intelligence? I don’t know what it is. Sometimes I wish I couldn’t see it. Sometimes I pretend I don’t. Sometimes I don’t. Maybe I would actually like people if I didn’t see how selfish they are. Or how stupid.

I can see who people are when they write, when they do the things they do when they think no one is looking, or when they think no one is paying attention, or when they think they have power over someone else. I have started to meet so many evil people who truly believe their actions are inconsequential; people who like to cause pain in small ways, that I’m starting to think that most humans are assholes. People think you don’t notice when they’re being jerks. I notice it and I call them out over it. I notice when the way a person talks to me changes. I notice when the way they look at you changes too.

And I notice when someone notices me. I notice when someone catches me before I can hide my emotions behind my mask. And I have total respect for people who put me through the same x-ray vision and see right through me and see the person that I am when I am caught defenseless. People who look at me and can tell what I am thinking. They are so few and far between that I feel drawn towards them.

At one point I thought I was the only one who could do that. Overtime I realized it came to me by way of my mother and I have met this one other person so far for whom all it takes is one look. How their mind works and what motivates them, what drives them, what their intentions are and what they want from their environment. Everything is right there. Or maybe it is just the plain old matter of someone paying attention.