I am at war with memory
This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. This month, each of us examined the concept of ‘MEMORY’. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.
Image Credits: Aarti Krishnakumar, Aarti’s Substack.
It’s been a while since I wrote. Life has been a comfortable cycle of monotony, mostly good, but the writer’s block has been hard.
Recently, a ‘usual’ interaction led me down a loop of unfortunate conversations, causing the notebook to be dusted off again:
I am at war with memory.
I gave it many options to leave my body. I packed it tightly in cellophane and threw it out through one ear, expecting a prompt exit. After all, that’s what men who make you feel uncomfortable even for a split second deserve - a swift kick out of your brain.
But the cellophane-wrapped package latched on and crinkled throughout the day. Lingering uncomfortably. Clawing at my skin. A perpetual itch I was not able to scratch.
I am at war with memory.
I unwrapped the package, threw out the cellophane, and tried sharing it with the people I call mine. They poked at it, picked apart the hard jagged pieces, and made it lighter. But the package had already bled out through the cellophane, leaving stains all across my head.
I am at war with memory.
I scrubbed at the stains. Fresh stains are easy to get out, right? Just get them out, you’re a strong girl, what is a stain compared to ruin? So I scrubbed. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and they faded. But the itching continued.
I am at war with memory.
I took a flashlight into my head. Why was this package causing an unscratchable itch? Unsurprised but deeply unsettled by the light, I see stains all across my carpet accompanying the latest addition. Stains from tightly wound packages of varying sizes - a lingering gaze, an uncomfortable squeeze, a loud catcall, an unsettling conversation, a visceral reaction, a ‘no-turned-maybe’, an unknown discomfort - familiar stains. Stains I knew of. Stains I didn’t.
I am at war with memory.
There’s a reason Belinda’s monologue from Fleabag pricked at women across the world:
Women are born with pain built-in. It’s our physical destiny…
Stains remain because women are told to get used to their pain. We are born with bodies meant to endure it, and we are taught to keep our pain inside.
We teach women to survive in a horrible world by telling them to shrink.
To relax. To calm down. To not hold on to their anger. To let it go.
Instead of the world housing your anger, we are told to house our anger in neatly packed memories that bleed out a little every time a new one makes its way in.
We teach women not to pick battles they cannot fight - of course, it’s a man’s world, you cannot fight every battle, so let go! We are taught to wrap each memory in tightly wound cellophane and throw them out, because if you don’t, you give them power. They win.
But they have already won.
Your unscratchable itch and carpet of stained memories are their victory.
I have thrown out more packages than I can count. I have let go.
So why do I still itch every. Damn. Time?
One day, I hope to tell the story of how I stopped being at war with my body. And it begins with my battle against memory. And this time, I will win.
Links to the other essays on Memory:
Unphotographable by Richa Vadini Singh, Here’s What I Think
#12: On Memory by Siddhesh Raut, Shana, Ded Shana
When the Screen Came to Life by Vikram, Vikram’s Substack
‘Remember that time…?’ by Karthik, Reading This World by Karthik
the memories/ earrings / people i keep by Shruthi, Will you be my friend?
This newsletter is dedicated to all the people at war with memory. May we all win. It is also dedicated to all the writers of Bangalore Substack Writers Group, keep writing!
Big ummas and hugs,
Always, Ameya.
Such a powerful and poetic piece
❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹