When We Remember

When We Remember

         Flashing lights revealed a set of high cheekbones and curious eyes. The powerful pulsating of an unidentifiable song pulled me towards his outstretched hands, the distance shrinking until I could feel his cold fingertips grace my arm gently, innocently. Smoke blew from his nostrils; a burned-out cigarette fell to the floor. Not even midnight in Moscow could conceal his bright white smile. I found myself wholly entranced by the picture before me. It was in this moment of weakness, in this moment of impulse, that I fell prey to a savagery that I had convinced myself would never happen, at least not to me. 
Memories are powerful. That picture on the fireplace of Grandma and Grandpa taken fifty-four years ago turns melancholy after the death of a young soldier left the young bride alone, hollow and lost. The same picture later makes her smile with an overwhelming love, evoking all-consuming gratitude for his existence in her life. It is odd, is it not, the ability for emotions to shift upon a memory? For Grandma, some days prove blissful. She remembers the moment she first locked eyes with a flustered boy whose face turned red as he held her gaze. A humble wedding followed their quick engagement. No one predicted that the kiss on her cheek as he boarded a train upon an unexpected call to service would serve as their last physical contact; no one predicted he would never hold their unborn baby. His untimely death still makes her question everything. Life is not supposed to do this. It is not supposed to reduce an eternal partnership into dreams of what could have been.
Take a mother whose newborn child did not make it home from the hospital. The doors to the newly decorated nursery remain closed for months as she unsuccessfully attempts to accept that the family puzzle will forever have a missing piece. The crack in her heart grows each day. She sits in her room for hours on end, a blank stare revealing the emptiness crushing her inside. A mother should never see her child die; the natural order of things leaves no room for a premature burial. Such trials intrude extensively into individuals' experience, tempting them to allow the resulting negative emotions to consume their existence.
Life is not all bad, of course. Happiness surfaces in the least likely circumstances and solace emerges amid despair. The hug that lasts two beats longer than planned, the handwritten note from an old friend, the utter elation that accompanies the first warm day after a long winter; these moments may be small but their memories leave lasting impressions. In times of anguish, in times that challenge expectations, one can reflect on these joyous memories for comfort.
The ability to recall events, experiences, and emotions--both pleasant and painful--serves humans a vital purpose. It is those mental pictures, some appealing, some down-right ugly, that contribute to the person looking back in the mirror. It is a fairly under examined facet of human nature that one will inevitably attempt to suppress his or her most unpleasant memories and the emotions they produce. Despite intentional restraint or subconscious reduction, these negative feelings will lurk in the shadows, existing as distant thoughts that we believe we can successfully avoid by scrolling through Facebook or by pressing "next" on Netflix. 
I was raped by that stranger in Russia. Afterward, I shut down the emotional piece of my soul. My denial and avoidance became a prison. The bars of evasion consumed my every action. The warden remained masked, my efforts at unveiling him persisting in vain. Ultimately assuming that the person lying beneath the cover was my rapist himself, I allowed him to dominate my every action. I began to avoid not only my memories but also my present. I hid behind anxiety and depression, ruminating, questioning, losing my mind. My attempts at emotional avoidance, in fact, accomplished the very opposite; I was trapped in a constant vigilance, consumed by failed attempts at keeping these memories and negative emotions from rising to the surface.
One day, I woke up tired. I was exhausted, not from a poor night's sleep but from a fight I was unknowingly losing. With my eyes wide open, I stared at the textured ceiling. I had never noticed how intricately the lines crossed until now. I started to make shapes out of their intersections: a dog in the corner, waves of the ocean flowing to the middle.
Patterns. In childhood, I received a blueprint that silently dictated my every action, every thought. I saw the way life was supposed to be, and I expected that reality would reflect these expectations. A young girl was not supposed to be raped; it was not written in the plan. But a young girl was raped. Passionate love should not be destroyed prematurely, and a mother should never bury her child. Nevertheless, the fluidity of free will and the unpredictable circumstances that assemble life do not allow for a flawlessly straight and narrow path. Unexpected events contribute to one's life story and each situation contributes to his or her unique design, both the good and the bad.
After I relinquished control of the circumstances of the event, I found a command over my reaction to the experience. I suddenly realized that the warden of my mental prison was not my rapist but instead myself and my unwillingness to change. I sought advice to effectively move on. The vital component I had been denying myself was a toleration for the bumps in my personal road. Without these divergences, I would not be living at all. The keys to my mental freedom sat in front of me, anxious to unlock a liberated mind, a beautiful heart. Sure, some days are still hard. I sometimes lie awake at night, reliving a memory I cannot erase. I have come to embrace those moments, not because I enjoy them, but because they are a part of me. The keys are now in my hand, and I make conscious efforts every day to face the hard emotions head on. In doing so, I have secured the control for which I had long been searching.
The human experience is constantly in flux. If people had the ability to control external variables, it would exist in utopian illusion. Reality hardly allows for such control; instead, it commands action. Whenever we recognize and tolerate a negative memory or emotion, its immense power withers as emotional acceptance takes its place. Only after one assumes the lead, controlling reactions to tough times and the resulting emotions, can he or she be free from the confines of a mental prison.