Disremembrance

31st December, 2015

The human species is sure a little obsessive with dates. We have the names of variety for quite a few of them. The New Year's Eve. Christmas. Holi. Eid. Easter. Valentine's day. And what not. It can be said, in my case that obsession is a bit exaggerated.

The obsession makes me remember all the data that was ever recorded by the brain across decades. I would not forsake all the pleasing remarks about having a superpower. But, these are obviously from people with a normal functioning brain. Well, mine does not. Rather, I should say a certain component is unusually overworking: My memory.

I have what can essentially be quoted as "possession of superior autobiographical memory". A scientific tongue would pronounce it Hyperthymesia.

My memory is always chatting, playing images back and forth. I can't seem to produce a thought out of the realm of the retentivity. My whole present life is expended on peruse of the existing data. The slightest of stimuli of any nature can trigger these images.

I can recall the first time I got sucker punched at school. 12 August, 1991. It hurts to this day.

29 February, 1996. I got into an accident. It was terrible. Broke many bones. Only it didn't cause memory loss.

30th March, 1994. I tripped a few steps and got my shirt torn beyond mending. It was a denim shirt. My mother had got it for me as a birthday present. It was my 17th birthday. That day, my Dad....

My mind is a memoir. A disdainful, excruciatingly detailed one. One that mocks the subject to an outstanding extent. I get up everyday to nightmares that sharply resemble my real life. All these images crowd over my eyes. They never go away.

The linkings in my memory are too strong and they never tend to get weaker. Just adding up new ties.

The earliest my head has got the days stacked up chronologically is 31st December, 1988. For so long - 28 years - every day has been all but forgotten. Days pass, the pain lives and ascends. Each date has been nothing but an increment. It's exasperating.

It's the time of the year, when other people are counting down their adventures and misadventures of the year past. For me, the activity is traumatizing.

All my days spiralled down - remembering, cringing, frowning. On Christmas , when children peek over their covers at the bottom of tree, I was awaiting something else.

I await for the one moment that has remained a dream. The one I have dreamed in between many reruns of the past.

A door affording the sunlight sparkle my dull environs. The abject pallor on my face guarding down. I gasp to gather the exploding fresh air.

11th January, 2016.
I enter the room and the noises are reduced to murmurs in acknowledgement. It is all still the same. The smells. The sounds of fluttering paper. The year hasn't past.

I walk across the rows of benches to the podium to pick out a chalk piece. The texture is just as my mind anticipated. My days are a single recorded DVD. The earth's revolution cannot change that.

I break the piece in two - just as is customary of me. I proceed to write on the blackboard very inattentively.

History

Yes, I talk of dates to smaller versions of people. People who could not grow to become more understanding of my place. It is not what I could teach.

"Who hasn't done the holidays' homework?"

A small boy stands up and says, quite admittedly but also in a nonchalant manner: "I haven't done my homework."

I walk to him firmly and ask him the reason.

"I forgot to do it, sir."

It was the most frequent answer a teacher has to swallow down. Normally, I would be upset and contorted or ignorant and treat the child with mild rebuke. I smiled oddly.

"Quite truthfully so.", I said.