My Innocence

If you asked me to tell you my fondest childhood memory, I wouldn’t be able to provide one. Not because I had a terrible childhood, but the erasure of my memories. Depression is a bitch in so many ways, even aside from the melancholy. Every time I try to remember my life and my past, it feels as if I have come down with a case of amnesia. Who am I, truly? I always wished I had a character sheet, a list and reference to remind me of what body I am living inside of. I wish that I could tell a story that was comforting, but I am only grasping at things that I don’t remember experiencing.

My only comfort is the now; I have my love and my hard work and my comfort items. Is it horrible to say that I wish I could relive the parts of my life that I cannot recall? Everything is in order, everything is being pieced together, and yet I still long to remember how I felt as a child. It is a heart wrenching desire, solely because I can’t ever truly experience that again.

I’ve heard people say that your bedroom reflects your mind. I observe my own, piecing together the puzzle that an outsider would see; it is messy, although cluttered in a way that I would be able to find anything that was asked of me, the light hum of the knowledge stored on my laptop (even if it is useless), the gentle colours of the paint on the walls, the softness of the stuffed animals that cover every empty surface and collect dust like the remnants of my childhood. The stuffed animals sit in the corner of my mind, yet out of reach. My arms reach out desperately, not willing to let them rot in the process of aging.

I’m getting closer, closer, my fingers just barely brushing against the plush fur of one of their bellies. Is it possible that my brain is sharper, now that I’m starting to reach? She is right there, right before my eyes, so crisp and clear and she will be mine. There is no way I am dying without a taste of the delicacy that we call innocence.