A pattern has emerged in my writing. I’m either describing my resiliency as a child, and how I fought through handicaps to succeed. Or, I’m writing humorous stories about my life where I turn the humor back on myself.
But, there’s more to me than that. Let me list one:
I was a Tagalong.
For two years, maybe three, my neighbor Tom, who was three years older than me, would take me along to hang with his friends. I was in sixth grade when he was in ninth grade. His friends hardly even acknowledged me. Occasionally, they would let me play over the line with them, but never let me play in any real baseball game when they played a neighboring park summer team. I was a tagalong. Because I believe memories like this one are not lost, but hidden, there is a part of me that identifies as a tagalong. To this day, in some situations that feeling of being a tagalong will reoccur. If so, I will leave the situation, which almost always results in receiving a call inquiring why I left. If I don’t exit, I will attempt to find a way to break in and start talking. Sometimes it turns out to be a bit awkward.
I don’t write about this. It feels like a piece of space debris that passes through my mind every ten years or so. Evidently, it’s had its impact on my behavior.
There are many pieces of space debris floating around in my head that I have never mentioned, because they seemed so insignificant to me.
But, here’s the rub: I have written about what I have determined is what I am, but what if I have chosen incorrectly. What if the debris is more determinative of my behavior?
The mind is like a quantum field. Memories appear, then disappear. Where are they until they appear?
This memory of being a tagalong is sticking. There’s more to it than I thought. It has branches stretching out and grabbing other lost memories. I feel a bit vulnerable, but I’m ready to work on this debris more.