I wish I had thrown it away years ago. Every time I look at it a sad tune comes to mind. My heart rips open again. Tears start to roll down my cheeks. Every time I look at it, I hear the crack. I see it so clearly in front of me. Remember it like a movie that plays in my mind. I wish I could have popcorn while watching it, to make it less real, to sweeten the horror.
Some things just hold memories, good ones, and bad ones.
When I look at a photograph from my fifth birthday, I can still taste the gooey chocolate cake that was a sugary delight but clung to the top of my mouth and I had such a hard time getting it off. I remember sitting on my Grandma Nelly’s lap. I remember that I could not for the life of me blow out all the candles at once. I remember how everybody laughed at my attempt and I laughed with them because the world was still okay.
When I look at my favorite stuffed animal, a cute little doggy I named Wuffy when I was six, I can still see the tea parties we had. He took it with milk but no sugar. We sat there for hours, and my parents would check on us from time to time confused why I was still sitting there with my own miniature tea set that had purple flowers painted on it.
However, I can still remember how I got upset with my dad when I was not allowed to have ice cream right before my bedtime. I was so angry that I chucked Wuffy at the door needing to get that anger and hurt out. Disbelieving that my dad did not love me enough to fulfill my wish. Moments later I would feel bad for treating Wuffy that way, would apologize and cry. He would forgive me. And I forgave my dad. I might have been seven at the time.
When I walk around my village, I still feel like an eight-year-old child walking next to Grandpa going to see the neighbor’s horses. He gave me carrots and sugar cubes to feed the horses. He taught me how to greet horses in their language, bought me books about them and I would forget the world around me while reading.
Every time I smell pancakes, I still remember how my mom would make them every Friday. I was allowed to help her make the dough at first. But as time went on, I was given more and more responsibility. I still remember the first time I had to make them by myself. I was so scared and proud at once.
Whenever I hear about Greece, I still remember the salty ocean air and sharp rocks underneath my feat. I can still feel the pain when I tripped and sliced my toe open and my dad carried me back to our hotel room. He brought me a band aid with Disney princesses printed on it. I showed it to everyone I saw that day.
I have so many good memories that sometimes I cannot help but feel incredibly lucky. Lucky to have an amazing family and friends, lucky to grow up in a safe environment, lucky to be alive.
But people say that one bad memory often outweighs all the good ones.
I suppose that might be true. Maybe if I had thrown it away years ago, I could forget what happened. Maybe if I had thrown it away years ago, I could stop clinging to the past. Maybe if I had thrown it away years ago, I would have started to process it and not have the need to tell everyone.
It is something I want to share although I want to keep it to myself as well. I have told so many people about it already, but it never heals the wound. It does not matter how many hugs I get or how often people tell me that they feel sorry for me. I do not feel better, and I do not feel less guilty. Sometimes I cannot breathe because of it.
I suppose telling people is some sort of trauma response. I suppose I try to process what has happened by letting people see me, by putting myself out there. But what does it actually do? It creates trust. It makes me realize who I can count on. But does it help me?
I suppose one cannot help a murderer this easily.
Isn’t a life that you fail to save a life that you have taken? Isn’t the failure to call 911 even though you have had the knowledge that it could save lives a clear sign of attempted murder? Does the plea “Stay with me! Do not leave me! I love you! Everything will be okay. I am here with you, and I will stay” actually redeem yourself?
Then there is the question of whether a murderer deserves help, of course. Doesn’t everyone deserve it though? Even if others help, will I eventually fall for it? Will I forgive myself even though I recognize my guilt? Even though I recognize my failure. Even though I recognize my deed.
I believe I should not.
I know that if I keep my certificate for medical education , I will remember it. I can still hear the sounds of that moment. I can still smell the food that was cooking while it happened. I can still see the empty blue eyes staying in the void.
It stays with me, and I cannot bring myself to let it go.
Nevertheless, I wish I had thrown it away years ago.
Merci pour la lecture!
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