I seem to have a bad memory. I remember with great difficulty what happened yesterday, and if I had to testify, then without the help of Facebook (an extremist organization banned in Russia), I would not have been able to answer the question: “What did you do last Friday?” I don’t remember it at all.
All my relatives know that I can repeat the same thing for years, but I still don’t remember that shoes should be put on the shelf, and not thrown in the corridor, or that you shouldn’t interrupt, but you need to listen to the end. It just seems that this is some kind of sloppiness — I just don’t remember at all when they ask me about this.
I have taken memory tests several times, at least five times in different years, and each time it turned out that my memory is excellent, both short-term and long-term, and that I remember test pictures and phrases better than the average person should. Well, there are 8 out of 10. And, perhaps, only this convinces me that one can still live with my memory.
But I tightly remember the names of literary heroes and their creators, and the more complex the names, the more «foreign», the better. For example, Lanfranco Casetti or Pelham Grenville Wodehouse — and a good hundred more. That’s how it stuck in my memory in childhood «…to the verses of Rabindranath Tagore», and I still remember it now.
I also remember the small details of the life of friends and for some reason remember them many years later. What I remember best are the details they shouldn’t have shared at all. For example, I remember very well how six years ago a friend, Irochka, told how she went to a resort, where she had an affair with a terribly thin Swede, contact with whom left bruises on her thighs.
In the past six years, she got married and had two children. And just recently, we were washing the bones of a mutual friend who returned from Turkey with a broken leg and was pregnant. And then Irochka says: they say, she never had any passions on vacation.
— How is it, — I say, — but do you remember that Swede?
What Swede? She wrinkles her forehead, trying to remember.
— Well, the one who left you with bruises here.
A long and agonizing pause. I shouldn’t have memorized the Swede.
I don’t want to remember all this, but I remember
15 years ago, another friend wanted to divorce her husband and even put him out of the house for a while. She excitedly told me what hellish porn he watches and what specialized magazines of the same direction he buys, how she was mistaken in it and how disgusting he is to her. And she talked in detail about both porn and the content of magazines. It is clear that I still remember all this in great detail.
And now, when she very convincingly tells me that she and her husband are inseparable and have always been close and understood each other, which is now a rarity (as you understand, they reconciled then), I prefer not to remind you of that “magazine” period.
A respectable female professor told me years ago about her first male scribbler and how she smashed a glass table in the room where they met with her heel. She told and forgot, of course.
I don’t want to remember at all that my friend had anorexia, but she hides it from everyone, I don’t want to remember the affectionate nicknames (“piglet”, “kitten” and others) that my financial partners called each other (they once showed me the correspondence) . I don’t want to remember with what phrase the ex-husband rolled up to this girlfriend, that this girl did not cure the fungus, and this man had a secret affair with a teacher at school. I don’t want to, but I remember.
There must be a way to keep fast-paced days in mind. That’s what life is
What do I do with the fact that I do not remember my usual life? All these yesterdays, the day before yesterday, the second Sunday of December and all that. To traditionally sum up the results of the year by December 31, you have to study social networks.
So, Facebook (an extremist organization banned in Russia) reports that this month we finished the film, and then there was a premiere. So, and then my sister stayed with me for two weeks, and in these photos a trip to the sea, yeah, now I remember …
It bothered me so much that I even wanted to address this to a psychotherapist.
— Doctor, what to do? I remember nothing…
Don’t worry, Lena. Before you die, remember everything important.
— Like this? Well, if you don’t remember, then it doesn’t matter to you. And the important thing will pop up at the right time.
All these little things, and even not from my life, are they important?
It doesn’t matter, but mine, I like it too. I also want to keep the unimportant, but I live it every single day. Still, there is a mistake somewhere. There must be a way to keep fast-paced days in mind. This is what life is. What are your thoughts on this?
Pages of Elena Pogrebizhskaya in social networks: Facebook (an extremist organization banned in Russia) /