A Made Up Memory

Somehow I've reached a point where it's hard to believe that I used to be a little kid. A baby. I used to scream and cry in public and people didn't mind, they accepted it. I used to stare at things for forever and eat dirt and crawl around on the ground and everyone thought it was cute. I used to know nothing and added only goofy sounds to conversations and people thought it was normal. My mom used to cradle me in her arms and feed me and sing to me. My dad used to hold my hand and help me open Christmas presents and put the toys together. My sister used to teach me games and build forts with me and protect me from the monsters. They all protected me. I used to have people who kept me alive, and I don't really remember any of it.

None of the memories are bright and crisp enough to seem real, though I feel like they happened. Even when I see pictures of myself as a little kid, the smiling or crying or curious little face looks like a stranger, a friend's baby, somebody else being held by my young mother. Not me. But I know that it is me. That it was me. Pictures don't lie. That moment really happened, whether I can remember it or not. Pictures do strange things to the mind. Or does everyone feel this way and I'm just now getting weirded out by it?

In fact, some of the memories that stick out the most from when I was little are the silly little scenarios I day-dreamed up, the ones that never actually happened. Like going for a walk and imagining I was a giant, stomping through forests and skipping over mountains. Or imagining long, emotional conversations with my cat. I remember those memories, those day dream conversations, quite clearly. But where have the real memories gone? They must be there somewhere. Does my brain value make-believe more than reality, and has therefore clung to the moments it once wished would happen, while ignoring the ones that did?

And does this mean that in another 30 odd years, when I'm wrinkly and gray and slowing down even more, wanting to retire and rest, the memories I'll recall of these days will be mostly the meaningless, made up conversations I have in my head, and the random dreams I envision for myself all the time? Will the memories not include the real world swirling about outside, the real people moving and breathing around me, the real stories unfolding, of life and death and love and hate? Will it all be lost on me? It's sad to think that I'll be living in a world of memories that never happened, unable to recall the actual life that I led, or the real conversations that I had, or the wonderful people that I loved, and that perhaps loved me, too. The real people that I loved, but never quite understood. Never quite got to know... because it's difficult and a little bit terrifying to try and comprehend a life story your brain didn't invent on its own.