# Embracing the Memory Curse: A Journey of Connection
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Chapter 1: The Challenge of Memory
Identifying my earliest memory is quite a challenge. I have a vivid recollection of an old video showing my 3-year-old self furiously stomping on a chair as if I were attempting to conquer it. However, I lack the first-person perspective of that moment. I've also seen numerous pictures of myself at age four, indulging in a blue birthday cake, yet I can't remember its taste.
My first clear memory dates back to my initial day at preschool, marking the first occasion I was away from my family. My parents took me to school and engaged in conversation with other adults while I stood there, lost in thought about what lay ahead. One moment I was clutching my mother's hand, and the next, I was hearing their goodbye. Overwhelmed with emotion, I began to cry and attempted to chase after them, only to be held back by a teacher as they disappeared from view. No one had prepared me for being left in a room full of strangers. My tears blurred my vision, and the next thing I recall is sitting with other children, a bowl of fruit loops in front of me, all while I continued to sob.
From that day forward, creating lasting memories became less daunting. I noticed that each time a negative event occurred in my life—my parents' divorce, relocating for the first time, ongoing disputes with my sister and mom, the loss of a friend, and a family member's passing—my ability to recall memories strengthened. Adversity sparked a heightened awareness in me, leading to my decision to start journaling in 2014, a habit I've maintained ever since.
Now, it's difficult for me to forget conversations or experiences with others, regardless of how much time has elapsed. Yet, through my interactions, I've realized that this ability is not as common as I initially thought. While I view my memory as a blessing, it can sometimes feel burdensome. If a close friend fails to remember our cherished moments together, it leaves me questioning their significance.
Section 1.1: The Weight of Memory
To me, remembering holds great value. I feel deeply affected when loved ones cannot recall memories I hold dear. In those instances, I often try to jog their memory, and occasionally, they respond with, "I think I remember now," which is comforting yet hard to accept at times.
As these experiences accumulated, I began to feel increasingly isolated. Memories are the bedrock of relationships, but if I am the sole keeper of them, does that imply I am the only one invested? While I know I'm not alone in caring, it can certainly feel that way.
For a long period, I regarded my exceptional memory as a burden, leading to bitterness towards friends who never seemed to remember anything. One of my closest friends, despite our decade-long friendship filled with shared experiences, often forgets our moments together. When I mention a memory, he typically replies that it has slipped his mind entirely.
This prompted me to question: what is the point of spending time with someone who will inevitably forget our shared experiences? This internal conflict created a dissonance between my thoughts and feelings. I remained loyal to my friend, striving to be understanding, yet it felt like he was disregarding our shared history, making it increasingly challenging to engage in conversations that often repeated themselves.
Section 1.2: Seeking Connection
I hoped to find someone who shared my memory burden, envisioning a deep friendship. However, that ideal proved elusive, leaving me mentally and emotionally isolated. I distanced myself to avoid further pain, but this only deepened my loneliness. It resembled trying to leap forward on a mountain trail, only to tumble off a cliff back to the start. I recognized that this approach wasn't the solution. Ending friendships is not something I can do easily, so I continued to spend time with my forgetful friends, but with a guarded heart and a mind preoccupied with their inevitable lapses.
One day, while improvising on the piano, a melody reminded me of a dear friend, someone who often forgot but remained important to me. As I played, I grappled with the same questions that haunted me whenever I thought of those friends. Why endure the same heartache repeatedly if nothing changes? Suddenly, the answer crystallized for me: because I cannot forget how much they mean to me.
Chapter 2: Transforming Pain into Purpose
I will remember what others have forgotten; it's simply a facet of my identity. While some may lose touch with our shared memories, I will hold onto them. Others might not feel the emotions tied to those moments anymore, but I will. Even if they struggle to understand my depth of feeling, I will do my best to convey it to them.
I can choose to lament the fact that those I cherish don't seem to reciprocate my level of care, or I can embrace this memory burden as a gift. I recognize that my habit of preserving memories primarily benefits me, but it can also enrich the lives of others. This realization inspires me to share my unique gift with those around me.
For every event I attend, I will capture the moments through videos and photos to share later. For every meaningful conversation, I'll document it in my journal as a story for them to revisit. I aim to preserve our memories together, ensuring they remain accessible for future reflection.
I will remember what others have forgotten. This is my pledge and my gift to those I hold dear. Since coming to this understanding, I've shared numerous photos and memories with friends and family who value my efforts in capturing our moments. I hope you too can discover a unique trait you once perceived as a curse and transform it into something that enriches the lives of those around you.
The first video, "Is Memory a CURSE?" explores the complexities of memory and its impact on our lives, inviting viewers to reflect on their own experiences.
The second video, "Curse of the Memory," delves into the challenges of memory retention and the emotional weight it carries, resonating with anyone who struggles to connect through shared experiences.