I've told you that I can't forget. And that's true but maybe not the truest way to explain myself. 

I have been working on my trauma for 12 years now. That is to say, before it was even over. I've learned a lot of things and accepted even more. When I first moved away from home, your specter was invasive. I saw you in everyone I met who so much as liked the same sports teams. I spent a lot of time remembering back then. And it was these sudden, forceful memories that I came to resent the most. How you couldn't just stay 600 miles away where you belonged.

But 12 years is a long time. And I no longer think of you because of a man wearing your style of sunglasses or dripping the same brand of condescension. Now I only think of you when we're talking, which we seldom do. But there's something about the casual way that you dismiss the past that tells me that whoever this new you is, they aren't that removed from the old you. You'd resent that if I said so. But I'm waiting for the version of you that listens to any of the words that I have to say. I still haven't found him. So go ahead, tell me about how new you are and how much you resent my distrust. 

I'll wait 12 more years if I have to. And 12 more after that. Because mapping your habits kept me alive once. Even though I don't see your shadow everywhere, I'd be a fool to turn my back on the intuition that  saw me through the dark years to where I am now. 

There are exactly two types of people in this world:

Forgetters and rememberers. 

In all the nuance, diversity, and complications of life, I have never found someone who neither remembers nor forgets...or who remembers AND forgets. 

You are a forgetter (in case it wasn't obvious). And I? I am jealous. 

You say that you forget because you are a new person. I'm curious. What is it like to be new?

Do you feel less broken? Do you feel younger? Do you feel more hopeful. I imagine so. With all of those years that have suddenly gone missing. I have been the rememberer more times than I can count. These memories leave me feeling old and tired, but I remember less often these days. 

I am not surprised that you can't remember. It was always only a matter of time. This story was written long before we even met. All the while as you made mistakes, it was already decided that you would forget and I would remember. I don't know why that is. And I would change it if I could. Doesn't it seem better if the person who was hurt gets to forget and the person who does the damage gets to remember? You wouldn't even need to feel guilty since the hurt would fade with the memory. We could both be free. 

Instead, some of your worse mistakes are frozen in my memory like a museum that neither of us want to visit. What an injustice that those who make the mistakes so often get to forget.

Unless, of course, you do remember and you're just afraid. 

And maybe that's the difference. Maybe those who forget just aren't as brave as those who remember. That can't be it though, because I've never valued bravery over staying unhurt. Maybe I'm also afraid then. You're afraid to remember and I'm afraid to forget. 

Tell the story

before you're healed

before you have figured out the right words

before you practice to perfection.

Tell the story.

Tell it because it happened.

It was real. 

And now it is over. 

There is a world of healing in those two thoughts: 

It was real. And now it's over. 

Draft 3 - New

We're standing in my driveway when you begin what amounts to the second apology I have received from you in nearly 20 years. It is the same as the first and just as insufficient. You are a new person and are sorry about what the old version of you did. Truthfully, you don't have very many memories from the time before rehab. Truthfully, I think about how much I'd like to talk to the old you instead of new you. We have some unfinished business.

Maybe I'm petty. 

Maybe I'm bitter. 

Maybe I'm just a bitch. 

All I can think is, "it must be nice."

It must be nice to be new. It must be nice not to be able to remember. 

I want to be new. I want to forget with such totality. I have asked God, but even as I asked, I knew the answer. 

This is my inheritance. Your mistakes live in my bones. While there is so much more to me than this inheritance, it is still here and still mine. 

So I guess the only thing that I have left to say is this: 

If you don't want to remember, leave me be. 

I don't hold these memories because I hate you but because I cannot forget. If you keep asking me for forgiveness, acceptance, or reassurance, your sins will come spilling from my lips. Your regrets will tumble off my shoulders. Your mistakes will surface from behind my eyes. So keep your distance. Leave me be. 

Because I am not new. I am the same. 

And I don't think I will ever be new.

Draft 2 - New

It must be nice to be the new person instead of me, the same old person with the same old hurts. Instead of me who has been working for 12 years to get better--whatever that means. It must be so nice to be new and to not remember. But your newness doesn't give me those years back and it doesn't undo the damage. 

Sometimes this "new you" feels like a gag in my mouth and throat telling me not to be who I am. Your newness says don't speak of the past. It didn't happen. It didn't hurt. I didn't survive it. I wasn't formed by it.

When you apologize, I feel the weight of your expectations. How you want me to accept you, how you want me to hold that newness in my fingers for the fragile thing that it is, how you seem to need me to protect it as impossible as that is. When you apologize, I see how badly you want me to be new too. 

And this is what I cannot quite work out: how do we put the new you and same old, raggedy me into the same space without exploding? I am vinegar. And you are baking soda. And we are definitely going to bubble over. I am abandoned gunpowder and you are a fresh match. There is only one thing that I can do. I want to be water, cool and life giving. But I am not new. I am tired and old and damaged. 

I am the boxing gloves you don't need anymore. I am the armor that I don't need anymore. I am the set after the play is over. I am warehoused weapons in peacetime. I am the booby traps after the pirates have already taken the treasure.  I am the watermelon rind after the picnic, bite marks still visible and all of the good parts consumed.

I do not want to be this way but what I want has never seriously mattered, not then and not now. If you want to apologize, start there.

Draft 1 - New

The problem is that I don't' feel like I have a place in your new life because I am not new. I am the adult who was the child who was formed by the choices we made back then. And I will be living with those choices for the rest of my life. I cannot tell you how badly I want to be new with you. But I am not. I am tired and damaged and raggedy. I want to forget but I do not. I want to start over but I cannot. I want it to hurt less but it does not. 

The apology is always for the drugs and the alcohol and whatever may have been done while under the influence. I do not know how to tell you that the influence was only a small part of the problem, that those years were the easy years because there was finally a reason that made sense. How do I tell you that the worst scars are the ones that I gained while everyone was sober? Nobody is apologizing for that.