Faded Photos. Muted Films.

Memories are a funny thing. At least for me.

I know people who can remember every detail of their history like picture perfect stills in time, date stamped, and captioned in fine detail.  Others can easily replay the videos of their lives; both completely perplexed by people like me. 

My memories are muted and muddy. Tattered photographs diluted by faulty perceptions, or hyperpigmented by overly romanticized renditions of what my mind has decided was true. And yet others are blank, undeveloped negatives tickling the back of my brain. They are stored away amidst those things that I do not discuss. I do not share. Buried. Stolen amidst those memories deleted for self-preservation.

But.  There are moments. Beautiful glimmers. When a memory pushes through.  One of the good ones that warms your very soul and reminds you of the goodness and love amidst the people and times that you were certain and convinced could never hold light. 

You can smell the air.  You can feel all the feels. And if you let the memory fully appear and show its full beauty, you can find where the beautiful pieces of you were born. 

For the longest time I felt trapped, without these fundamental visions of my past.  I was envious of others who could clearly see who they were, where they had come from, and why they belonged.  They had few mysteries and my life's album was botchy, blank, and in place dark.  I hated that they possessed the power to travel back to these moments that they shared. And I believed I was broken and they were not.

For years, I grappled with this brokenness. I mined the deep recesses of my mind and searched files, writings, records, and real images in an effort to uncover how I became broken. To discern when my mind began deleting what others held dear and revered.  To understand why my self-perceptions were as they were, why I settled when I deserved more, and why I gravitated toward toxicity.  

I uncovered pain and scars. But not because that's all that was there. No. I uncovered what I lived and so craved to break from.

Then slowly, through proper healing, joy, and honest love the brokenness would mend. Slowly. With patience and time. Those glimmers of light, once buried beneath the mess of experiences repressed, began to appear. Much is still lost. Some are grayscale puzzle pieces, disconnected and not quite within my reach. But some- they are vivid. They are beautiful. They are the most priceless watercolors of who I am. And of the beautiful things I have passed on to the world.