Unwelcome Memories (539 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.8 on 6 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by ReCall (View user info) at 2006-08-02 14:37:49 EDT
The hippocampus, the cortical structures surrounding it, and the neural pathways that connect them to the cortex as a whole are all heavily involved in what is called "declarative memory"-the memory of facts and events. Some very intense personal memories that bring what is sometimes called "emotional memory" into play appear to involve another structure that is somewhat less known outside of the neurobiological community. This structure is the amygdala, which is already known to manage our reactions to fear.
So you see, it was my amygdala that was to blame.
I couldn't pinpoint what triggered the memory, but the result wasn't a ripple. It was more along the lines of tidal waves. Waves of so many memories wrapped up in strong emotion enveloped my entire psyche, my entire reality, for a solid five minutes.
-----------------------------------------------------
July, 1986
Odessa, Ukraine
The air was moist with humidity, with the occasional palpable salty breeze coming in over the Black Sea. The road back to my mother's house was not a long one, but the streets were particularly dark due to the blanket of clouds which covered the night sky.
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my fathers Alfa Romeo, the abrasive seat cutting into my neck. The automaker clearly did not consider four year olds when designing the passenger seat.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary that night. The ritual of my father picking me up on Friday and his taking me home the following Sunday was nearing its 8 month anniversary.
This had been the way things had to be after my mother told him she was leaving him. If you want to get technical, she told him to get the fuck out. Everything that happened between them after that was hearsay. Stories of mom doing this, dad doing that. Stories that were skewed, twisted and manipulated to serve the speakers purpose.
I remember pulling up to the street of our apartment building and noticing the stranger's car again. The car started appearing on nights when my father was gone and shortly there after my mother gave him the marriage pink slip.
Apparently my father had recognized it because for the first time in eight months, after walking me to the front door he held my hand and began to climb up the steps towards the large, third floor flat.
Even at four years old I remember this with the utmost clarity. I even remember the exact tone in my voice: high pitched but resolute.
"You're not supposed to be coming up."
I didn't know how I knew that it was wrong. Probably because of all the brainwashing my mother and her family had bestowed upon me in the prior months. Nevertheless, I knew it was going to be trouble.
My father gripped my hand a bit tighter.
"It's ok, we are going up to eat some borscht."
--
What a fucking cliché dish to pick, I thought in retrospect.
---
The memory skips a few flights of stairs and brings me into the hallway of the flat. My father is pounding on the door of a locked bedroom where the stranger is cowering in fear. My mother is yelling at him like the psycho banshee that she is. I don't remember what she was yelling, but I remember hearing a few words that I was told never to repeat.
My father grabs both her hands and pushes her into the living room. I don't know where the rest of my family is. It is just my mother whom is in front of my father. I am behind him tugging on his jacket and begging him to just make it stop. The shouting and hysteria had put me into a state of panic.
I then clearly remember him calling her a cheating bitch and pushing her against our dining room table then raising his right hand high. I took off my cap and threw it against his back. It didn't have the deterrence I thought it might as he crashed his open palm against the side of my mothers face.
I began to pound my fists against his lower back as he continued hitting her.
Three, four, five times, I counted.
---
The memory ends here.
I don't remember what happened after, except that I did not see my father for a couple of weeks after that.
My mother suffered a broken ear drum.
The coward continued to hide in the locked bed room every Sunday night.
18 months later I was living in California, having forgotten the terrible series of events that occurred that July evening.
Until today.
User Reviews
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2007-11-09 10:50:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Hypatia86 (user info) at 2006-08-02 15:44:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
short and sweet.. but not really sweet, that sucks.
people pretty much suck.
Submitted by ubetidid (user info) at 2006-08-02 15:45:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Hypatia86 (user info) at 2006-08-02 15:44:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
short and sweet.. but not really sweet, that sucks.
Submitted by SPECIALk (user info) at 2006-08-02 15:27:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
mmm borscht...auto uki +2
Submitted by alwayspeach1 (user info) at 2006-08-02 15:21:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Foolproof (user info) at 2006-08-02 15:11:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
uh...what?