On Memory: An addendum to the aforementioned rage in 2018

I rather liked the last thing that I wrote. At least insofar as it seemed to stick mostly to one topic. A rarity for me. To avoid clutter, I’ve added this as a separate thing.

I’m amazed at the collapse in my memory. All at once, I think that I’m in different times, in different places, that I’m dreaming, that I’m awake. I can never seem to quite remember where I am. Or what I’m doing. I’ve just about lost all capacity to remember the names and faces I interact with in my daily life, and I’ve forgotten many of the ones that I worked so hard to learn in the first place. Every day feels, in a way I can not quite describe, less real than the day before, and I am less and less certain about whether I am as fleeing to others as they are becoming to me.
When I consider the list of people whom I have held dear, possibly loved, certainly obsessed over, and compare it to the people in my current pantheon, there’s little correlation, it seems. And I’m never quite sure what gets one in and leaves another off. What astonishes me is that the grade school boy who used to pull his old yearbooks down off the shelves and to read them, gently crying from nostalgia, just because he was afraid of forgetting a friend or memory now cannot remember the names of his students. Or coworkers. Or friends. Or much else. Everything is merging into some vague past. Everything that’s transpired is being sucked into so black whole, merging into an unholy singularity, before vanishing altogether. For someone for whom truth means everything and memory means only slightly less, this is disturbing.
When I consider my newly discovered capacity to forget people, I was bothered. I could not tell you the names of a half dozen students I taught in China. If I could, it’d be nearly exactly that number. Nor could I tell you about the teachers I worked with, or the people I adventured with. And these were my daily companions. And the knowledge, that knowledge that people vanished from me, has turned life into something of a living dream.

My grandmother died recently. And . . . while I felt sad . . . I also reminded myself that I never really see her. And I don’t generally really think about her. If anything, her death has made her more real than she’s been in years, but, at the same time, I know that the memory will fade. And quickly. And soon she’ll be utterly gone. And so many things will be utterly gone. I’m amazed at how quickly I can forget people. And how quickly people are forgotten.

I don’t say this next bit out of self pity, but as the calm reflection of someone who has been looking at this problem for years. Whatever protestations two of them may make her, I do not believe that actually killing myself would have a significant impact on any of my friends. Certainly, in the short term, people would be devastated. A few of them may even travel long distances for the funeral. But then, life would continue apace much as it had before. For most of the people I love the dearest, I am a series of letters which occasionally appear on a screen. A series of letters whose appearance has always fluctuated, or disappeared completely. I believe that, functionally, this would make very little difference. In a way, this is saddening, but, that’s selfish of me, and I don’t dwell on it. The upside is that, where my friends are concerned, I really wouldn’t have more than a pang of guilt in offing myself, and that is surprisingly comforting. I cannot explain how, why, or to what extent: But it is. I think that, in some corners, whatever the sadness, a small voice will say, “Well, at least he finally did something,” and or, “Well, he finally stopped monologueing and went through with it.” I hate the notion that other people would then define my memory, but, in a way, they already do, and I’ve become somewhat sadly resigned to that. I hate the notion of being turned into some too-good-for-this-world figure, and I hate the notion of inspiring strong and long lasting negative feelings. The notion of a burst of sadness, and then a gradually descent into a memory hole is something that I can accept. And this is, to the best of my knowledge, the way things would be.
In terms of the family, my father would disapprove, of course, And he’d be disappointed. However, to be fair, I’ve been a catastrophic disappointment in general. In some ways, he’ll resent me for it, but, I think that he’ll understand. And, in his own way, I think that he’d envy me.
My mother is the one are of guilt that I’ve got. And that’s a bit of a disturbing problem.

She is a psychological wreck who gave up on her own development in lieu of finding children to love. But her sons grew up, and it turns out that most children do the same. Her attachment to me is pathological, but also quite sweet and well meant. I can’t hate her, despite the damage, because she always meant well, at least insofar as she was capably of articulating to herself what she meant. She was in over her head in the world she ended up in. If she’d been born in her mother’s generation, she probably would have been a lot happier. She stayed twelve too long, and never learned to not be in awe of adults. And men are yicky. And children are cute. I was the obvious favorite, which I was semi aware of at the time, and which caused me no end of problems with my brothers. And she dotes on me. I hate the notion of taking a source of happiness, however small, from a sad, broken, failed, old woman. If she were to die, I’m almost entirely certain that I’d either follow, or join a monastery and then hope for death. I’ve often considered going home and living the life of a caretaker back in the old home. Just helping mum and dad as they decline, being with them to repay them for their kindness, and then, when they pop off, just go and do the same. In some ways, that seems like a rather tolerable life. It will have been a failure, to be sure, but something of a more tolerable failure than what I see stretching ahead of me.

Right now, when I look to the future, I see endless struggle and very little chance of any kind of benefit. I’ve destroyed my body, perhaps unsalvageably, and I’ve wasted the best years of my life in pursuit of a career which will go nowhere. I’ve lost the love that I had for the place that I loved above all else, and I’ve lost my ability to connect to or with anything. I could leave all of this behind right now and likely not miss anything. It would all just vanish from my memory. Like so many other things.

I hide these things in me, the rage, the everything else. And even the memory of these things is gone. But maybe that’s what’s eating me from the inside. Maybe I’m already devoured. I don’t know.
Regardless, that’s how things stand.

This isn’t to invite sympathy. This is to record the results of a lot of thinking and active consideration. I don’t want, or welcome, any increased attention. People changing their behavior towards me would be miserable. I’m ashamed that I even mentioned such a thing recently. It’s nobody’s business that I can’t deal with reality. Nobody’s business but my own. Perhaps what I need is nothing more than the resolution to maintain a shred of dignity until the inevitable happens. Whether naturally, or with a little bit of help.
But, frankly, I find that more and more often I come to the conclusion that I am already dead. And what remains is just a little technical detail to be worked out.
I really do feel, quite often, as though I am already dead.
Those are the bearable days.
Hell is when I suspect, in some odd way, that I may be wrong.