I can’t remember my teenage bedroom. I can’t remember my childhood bedroom. My memories are like floating bits of dreams, haphazard and difficult to pin down. There is no timeline - just wisps. Wisps of sense and nonsense. Wisps of clarity and opacity.
It hurts. It‘s like a phantom pain - nagging always and impossible to ignore. My mind wants order and memory. It wants its own memories, a lifeline that makes sense.
I can’t remember my home. Trauma does that to a person. If the brain can’t process the emotions or actions that are happening to the body, then it shuts down. It doesn’t encode the memory properly. Just sometimes the emotions. Flickers of what happened.
But I can’t remember my home.
I just want my memories.