what is ordinary forgetting?

Lately I’ve been ruminating on memory. It’s the holidays, I guess. I used to be ashamed of my disinterest in the holiday season. The consumerist slant and emphasis on time spent with extended family left me feeling alienated. I’d put on a show for everyone else and keep my disdain for the holiday to myself. In recent years, I’ve come to terms with it. I’m cordial, but it’s not for me. There are plenty of other people who can keep the Christmas spirit alive.

I still participate in plenty of traditions with my own family. I spent the afternoon yesterday rolling out dough and baking cookies in preparation for icing them this afternoon. We decorated a gingerbread house. I’ve purchased gifts for teachers and bus drivers. I am anticipating a fun trip to the train garden this week with the kids. I might be able to convince all three. I don’t buck the traditions, but I don’t feel particularly celebratory either. I try to remember the joy felt in past years when I fulfilled these must-do’s. Was it joy? It’s hard to say because there was also so much anxiety tied in with it. I felt as if I didn’t give the absolute right gift, the recipient would suffer and everybody else would look down on me for being stupid and selfish. It felt like I was gifting a spring-loaded mousetrap.

It’s not that I don’t want to give people gifts. I love when I know exactly what to get someone, a mental note I made a few weeks ago and had the good sense to write down. When I don’t have an idea ready, I am in trouble. Now I have to go out and buy a thing for this person. My own thinking around things has changed drastically over the last few years. I strive to be mindful of the materials I possess. I have requirements for the things I keep in my own life. Don’t get me wrong, I still value my stuff. I love my hoodies and I need each and every one of them for different reasons. I bought a typewriter that I think is the bees knees. It’s how I value the things that’s changed. Before, I wanted to have all the “right” things for when people came over. I needed a specific rug. I searched high and low for the perfect table lamp. I wanted these things for the approval of others. I wanted my home to match who I wanted to be, so that maybe someone else would believe I could be it. After some adverse experiences, I’ve come to value the things that help me feel the balance in the world. Some of them are luxuries—hardwood floors that wear with time, and some are necessity—a curated space for a morning practice. The former could be given up and the latter can never be taken away. Now, I measure the value of a thing by it’s meaning to me.

I have difficulty putting myself in my neighbor’s shoes when it comes to gift selection. I feel presumptuous assuming I would be able to make an appropriate thing selection on the behalf of anyone else. If it goes well, it could be something they look at every day of their lives. That’s a lot of pressure. Consumables are my go-to for acquaintance gifts. If they don’t like it, at least it’ll biodegrade. In past years, all of this overthinking was a source of tremendous anxiety for me. After everything was said and done, I felt relief it was over. I try to conjure more joyful Christmas memories when I decide which traditions should stay, but as I mentioned, I have some memory peculiarities.

I’ve struggled with memory my whole life. There is a symptom listed in textbooks about people like me: experiences more than ordinary forgetting. My forgetting is indeed extraordinary. Years of my life are missing. A few months ago I visited my middle school. I spent three years there and didn’t even recognize the building. Parked in front of the bright blue doors, I sat in the driver’s seat searching my synapses for the specific shade of cobalt and found nothing. It was discouraging, but I’m used to it.

It does make me wonder what ordinary forgetting even is. I mean, what this ideal I am aiming for? How about what I ate for breakfast last Wednesday? It’s probably ordinary to forget that. What about the Christmas gift I gave my next-door neighbors last year? How about what Santa brought for son when he was five? Should I be able to recall that without the aid of a photograph? How is it even possible to answer that question when by definition you can’t know what you’re trying to access? And is there a one-size-fits-all ordinary or does it vary from person to person? Is age a factor? Gender? What about stressful circumstances surrounding the brain’s initial development? Do those get factored in? My ordinary could be wildly different from yours and I don’t think there’s a way we could ever communicate that to each other. There’s no way to measure the abscess in the memory of a life without knowing the whole of it. Is it possible for me to tell you all of what’s missing from me? Is it still a part of me if I can’t recall it?

This kind of rumination is exhausting as you might imagine. When Is Don allergic to nuts? becomes a philosophical analysis on consciousness, it’s time to set down the wrapping scissors and turn on a nice, light-hearted television program. So this year on a weeknight in December, instead of diving head first into my Christmas craft, I watched Sister Monica Joan (my favorite sister) make it to the church in time to perform the reading for Trixie’s wedding. And boy, I’ll tell ya, that old lady knows how to pick a poem.