Permanence

It is well-known to anyone past the stage of infancy that objects, as well as people, have "object permanence." They may leave the room, but that does not mean they cease to exist entirely. Out of sight or out of mind is not the same as "gone forever."

However, when you can tuck yourself into bed and review the past sixteen years of your life as nothing but a string of changes, you begin to question permanence.

Having lost a substantial number of memories due to involuntary choice, I can barely recall the first fourteen years of my life. If you do the math, that leaves me two solid years of memory. Not much to go on.

Of course, I can recall bits and pieces of the past. I can remember enough of it to give you a full description of my emotions at any given point in time, and if I strain myself, I can even bring back a few memories that stood out. Most of them are times that I was humiliated or hurt--for some reason, pain sticks more than happiness does. I can tell you big things I did, or even places I went to--all things that have a specific date and time. But ask me who I was friends with in fourth grade and I draw a blank. Ask me what clothes I wore and I'll have to hunt up an old school picture to tell you. Even if you asked me what my day-to-day life was like, I would have to find an old diary to be accurate.

My parents got divorced when I was ten; I couldn't tell you what my life was like before that. I can't remember what it felt like to be innocent, or whole. I cannot bring back those feelings.

In the pieces I can recall, the most I could tell you is that my life is nothing more than a string of changes. Moves, shifts, changes--the whole thing.

Which, of course, makes it hard for me to accept some things as "permanent." My life in a two-parent home was supposedly "permanent," and yet it came to an end. My life as a trusting, kind, and sweet-hearted girl was supposed to be permanent, but the world made me incredulous, bitter, and broken-hearted. I've had it all and lost it all, multiple times.

I've seen the top of the hill, and I've sloshed through the mud at the bottom of the valley, too.

So when you tell me that "this is for real," that what I am living now is the "real thing," naturally I don't believe you. What I feel today may very well change tomorrow. What I believe to be reality could all be shot down. The people I call friends could betray me over any foolish circumstance [I would hope they wouldn't...]. My hopes, dreams, wishes, and goals could flip themselves over in a matter of less than a second, and I can't do anything to prevent it.

Even I am not permanent. One day, I'll die. I'll cease to exist. My soul--the personality that I carry that cannot be duplicated by any other individual--will be gone forever.

How the hell am I supposed to learn permanence if everything keeps disappearing?