They talk to me. I talk to myself. I tell myself: Remember when you found out you had a nickname. Not an endearment or a celebration. Not a nickname you wanted or were supposed to know about. When you were fourteen. Remember that. I tell myself: Remember when you pretended you went blind if you looked down. Because you saw it on a western film on television, and you thought it was interesting. When you were five. Remember that. Small demons tormenting me at every crossroads where I took a wrong turn. Remember when someone’s dad collected his daughter from a party, and he gave you a lift, and he asked his daughter how it went, and you, sitting in the back seat, answered. Like he was asking you. Like it was your place to judge. Like he cared about you. When you made assumptions. When you were thirteen. Remember that.
Small demons, talking to me. Reminding me. I remind myself. I forget most things and I’ve lost so many memories. But not the little bad ones, the tiny regrets. They seem to stay. They collect, gather in the corners, cling to one another like house dust, fluff, and crumbs. Tiny, but messy. Unhygienic. Small dirty cultures growing diseases, readying to infect. Preparing to overrun. I tell myself: Remember when you sulked all day, for so long you forgot what you were sulking about, and your big brother was visiting. He tried to persuade you to come out of your room, and you wanted to because you loved him so, but you wouldn’t. And you didn’t know why. And then he left. When you were eight. Remember that.
For example: I was at this wedding. Not mine. Not even someone I knew. A friend of a friend. I don’t really know why I was there, and I hate weddings. I was feeling self-conscious. Old and useless and not part of it. Bloated and uncomfortable and not smart enough. So many tall people. So many perfumes in one room, so many expectations. So much affectation. I was keeping it together by counselling myself. Trying not to be noticed. Trying not to ask myself the question on everyone’s mind: who is he? Who am I?
I’m standing there, waiting for someone, trying not to be noticed, trying not to get involved. The photographer asks me, are you bored? I think, am I? Is that how I look? Is that what they think? And then I tell myself: Remember that time, (not now). Remember when your friend told you he was having a trial at a professional football club, and you thought he said both of you, and you told your parents, elated. (Stop this). And you weren’t. And it should’ve been obvious, really, if you’d thought about it. When you were eleven. Remember that. (Fuck it).
And then I’m dealing with the small demons again. At a wedding where I don’t belong. Trying to fake interest, trying to fake a purpose. Trying and failing to hold back the small demons, the tiny regrets.
For example: I was meeting this friend who I hadn’t seen for twenty years. The bounty of social networking. He booked a hotel, and emailed directions. I wondered what we would talk about. It had seemed like a good idea, a week before. And then I tell myself: Remember that time, (fuck. FUCK). Remember that time you ran out in the road from the school playground. Across the road without thinking, without stopping. You didn’t get hit by a car but you could’ve been killed. People were shouting at you. It was unbridled abandon. When you were six. Remember that. I tell myself: Remember the brown paper bag, at the bus stop, when you were fifteen. Remember that statement about self-esteem, to your wife, when you were thirty eight. Remember saying, I Love You. Remember that.
I didn’t go. I didn’t meet my old friend. Small demons overpowered me. The immune system doesn’t fight off little bad memories. You forget them. Or you get sick, and swamped with tiny regrets.
