Thursday, January 17, 2008
through a glass darkly
I’m beginning to understand that memory is like a Russian doll, leastways memory that has been suppressed.
So much of what I (we?) remember seems to belong to someone else, as if I were reading about an alternate me in a novel. The memories are woolly, vague, assumed almost. So imagine my surprise when my psychiatrist began to unlock doors for me, onto whole dark vaults of specific memory.
Some are good, more are not - I’m sure I’m supposed to feel grateful but I feel rather as though I’ve been handed a box of spiders, and a key.
Apparently this is the way to deal with suppressed memory, suppressed grief, slowly but surely unlock it.
To be honest I’m not so sure.
I think I was happier mad.