Image via Pixabay
I’m not what you’d call a sentimental person.
I don’t keep old birthday cards. My kids drawings rarely last beyond a couple of weeks. A distinct inability to remember important dates or mail cards on time is a running joke in the family, as both my mother and I are hopeless.
Memories are important, I know that…I do. But I’ve always spent my life with my head in the clouds, thinking of tomorrow.
The “what ifs” of the world always capture my attention first. The “one days” and “maybes” and “we coulds” – I’m a dreamer.
I think that might be the first time I’ve ever admitted that without even a hint of remorse. Me…a dreamer. Yep, that seems right.
My thoughts drift to “I have an idea” and “One day let’s…” and “My plan is…” Forward thinking, future thinking, goal oriented, working toward something.
It seems strange to type those words out and not feel even a little chagrined. That’s who I am. Let me say it again…dreamer.
I embrace it, revel in it. Hell, my odd unwillingness to stop planning and list-making is what keeps everything in our kinky world moving forward. It’s a feature not a bug.
That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could walk down memory lane more often. I try…
John Brownstone and I danced to the first (and only) song we’ve ever danced to at our wedding. Thank gawd we have that one song or I might have chosen something by Godsmack or Queen (not bad options, by the way…but not very romantic).
I remember the date we “met” by email and the date we got engaged, although I usually don’t think about it until a day or two after it passes.
The kids’ photos plaster our walls, allowing me the joy to look at those early pudgy cheeks and innocent eyes whenever I want. I marvel at how little they were, my babies.
Memory lane for me has always been a rocky place. Dark with tangles and brambles reaching out to get me. I don’t look back because it’s always been safer.
The vast majority of my memories are awkward, painful, frustrating, humiliating. I don’t mean these are all my memories, only that if I think back to “what was,” those are the first images that come to mind.
When I wondered if I really should marry my first husband…
My father on his deathbed…
Angry voices raised…
My mother throwing cans of beer out into our front yard in a rare but powerful fit of rage.
Waking up with my father sleeping in my bed because he’d come home drunk again and my mother refused to let him in her bed.
Yelling. Insults. Angry voices. Sometimes directed at me, sometimes not.
If I let myself drift down memory lane, I go back to dark places and rarely think of the good and wonderful and funny and warm memories in my life. But there’s been plenty of that, too. If all you know of me are the sad or painful memories, you’d think me unhappy. And I’m not.
I’m ridiculously, disgustingly happy. For good reason. So why would I want to think of the dark memories that bubble to the surface so easily? It’s much easier to plan for the future. To be a dreamer.
Maybe planning for the future is a coping mechanism I developed as a kid. Maybe it’s how I’m wired.
For some reason, my brain holds onto bad memories – for whatever reason – and knowing this, I have no desire to look back. Instead, I’d rather do my best in the present and keep my eyes ahead on the future. Seems much safer that way.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt is all about memory lane. And now you know why I don’t naturally go down that particular path. I can – and I have, but it’s not my first inclination. If you’d rather have a bit of smut, you know where to go!