Sometimes I wonder if I forgot something on purpose. Not consciously, not with intent. Just, like my brain stepped in and said “You don’t need that part, Aria.” And so I went on, unaware.
But lately, something started leaking through. Like pieces falling out from behind the bookshelf. A tension that doesn’t match anything in my life right now but still makes me flinch. And I didn’t invite it back.
And this time, I know what it is.
I remembered.
And I wish I hadn’t.
That forgetting wasn’t a loss. it was more of a, a strategy.
A quiet decision made somewhere deep in the architecture of me.
Because something in there decided remembering would be worse.
I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t go digging. It came on its own. Loud in some ways, but mostly, still. Like it had always been there, just waiting for the right time to crawl back.
And now, there’s no guide. No clear step forward. I tried once. In therapy. Tried to say it out loud. My throat tightened like it was still protecting something. I was scared. Ashamed. She asked me to go back there, to look at it through my grown-up eyes, to rewrite the ending. But I couldn’t. I sat there nodding, pretending I was okay, while everything in me screamed no. Turns out, I’m still scared. Just like I was then. That little version of me didn’t go anywhere. she just got quiet.
It rewrites memories I thought were harmless. I look back and wonder if the way I laughed, or flinched, or froze in certain moments wasn’t random at all.
Now I know. I remember everything.
And part of me wishes I could forget it all over again.