The Gift of Forgetting: How Experiences Make the Fabric of our Lives

     Trauma can lead a person to madness, prompting them to a lifetime of guilt or pain or anguish. It leads me to wonder, how would life be like if we could forget those tragic memories? Would I want to trade those experiences for ignorance so that I could feel at peace?

    A young woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, traded her memories for a blankness in her mind. Before, she was ridden with corrupt thoughts and temptation and might've done something awful under the influence of that trauma she experienced nearly a decade ago. So, by taking a number ticket from a tear-off flyer, calling the number, and then orchestrating an appointment for the following day, she was on the path of being free. However, if the procedure went wrong she made sure to describe that event in heavy detail in a leather journal to put in the back of her closet. She was not stupid. A day later, she came back with a fresh mind, and the most peculiar thing happened: she forgot all about that journal. A couple days pass by and the people around her noticed how different she seemed. In the way she acts, talks, what she found interesting, and what hobbies she did, she was almost a completely different person. She decides she needed some new clothing, something different from her everyday drab costume. She pulls out sweaters, shirts, and jackets. Then some shorts, pants, and skirts. By the end, her closet was empty even though she didn't mean to leave it completely barren. She saw the back of her closet and found a leather journal, out of curiosity, she opens it and reads through the pages. As she flipped through the pages, looking at her supposed "memories", a feeling of rot began to form inside her. She didn't quite believe that whatever written in that book was true, that it had actually happened to her. Out of stubbornness, she tossed the journal along with the pile of clothes into a box and out of her life. And for the rest of it, she wonders if the person she used to be would be satisfied with the person she became.

    If experiences build character, then forcing an experience out would mean a complete change of character. You'd break down the foundation and thus, you'd become a different person. Now, would the new you be as complex and as deep as the person you used to be? Without that experience, would you truly live a better life? If you didn't give yourself that reminder, you would never know who you were and who you could've been. And shouldn't that be mourned?

    The gift of forgetting does not give you the receipt for return. Once you forget that piece of you, you never truly get it back. One can not be born with talent and knowledge of something, - at most one could be born with advantage - so it cannot be apart of your fundamental making of your soul. No one is ever born a writer and no one can ever force enjoyment of bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. Sure, you may become a better person, but is it worth more over loosing perspective?

    If one day you open your front door and find a flyer on the handle with a number to call and giant letters yelling "Forget Your Trauma! Set An Appointment!", sit and think for a moment if you would really want to trade your life for another. Because essentially, that is what it is. The gift of forgetting is really a gift of nuance, opportunity, and loss.

Childhood Toys: More Than Just a Toy

    As a child, I had many stuffed animals—dogs, cats, elephants, cows—you name it. My collection seemed endless. Now, though, I can’t quite grasp the fascination with them; they feel almost useless in day-to-day life. But I suppose, if I allowed myself to, I could understand it.

    When I was around six years old, I received a new plush toy: a small cat with black spots and one big pink spot around its ear. Its eyes stared back at me, glittering with pink irises, and its mouth was fixed in a permanent smirk. With its oversized head and tiny body, I squealed in delight, finding the little thing irresistibly cute. I held it close to my chest, grinning at both of my parents and the decorated Christmas tree behind them. From that moment on, it became my child. I named her Muffin, and I designated Christmas Day as her "birth" day.

    For months, Muffin was my favorite toy. She accompanied me to sleepovers, sat at the dinner table, and had her own designated spot on my pillow at night. I kept her in good condition, insisting she be washed regularly—if she got dirty, I’d clean her immediately, and if she didn’t, I’d wash her anyway, once a week without fail. It became a sort of ritual, and my parents didn’t mind; they thought it was building my "work ethic." Of course, I loved my other stuffed animals too, but none as much as Muffin.

    It’s interesting how time changes things, even my stuffed animals. Over the years, most of them were handed down to my little cousins or taken by my younger sister. But a few remained: a rabbit, a snow tiger, a regular teddy bear, and Muffin. Yet, the oddest thing happened. No longer did my stuffed animals sleep with me, join me at the dinner table, or come along to sleepovers. Instead, they were relegated to a shelf in my room, lined up neatly alongside old photos, birthday cards, CDs, guitar picks, a tin cookie box filled with sewing materials, and a framed Claude Monet painting—printed on card stock, of course.

    Now, Muffin sits on that shelf, collecting dust as the sun rises and sets. Unlike the sewing box or the CDs, I haven’t touched any of my stuffed animals in years. They’ve become like ornaments on a Christmas tree—seasonal at best, but permanently perched there, year-round. Muffin has transformed into a piece of nostalgia, a memento of my childhood.

    Maybe someday, I’ll pick her up and give her a wash. Then, perhaps, she’ll rest with me again, tucked into her own little spot on my pillow. I could probably learn to love her again, just like I used to.