Paradigm Shift.

What is a memory? Memory may be defined as “the power of retaining and recalling past experiences”. A memory is the powerful delve into the back of ones mind, the segment of ones mind where all experiences – negative and positive accumulate. Ones memory is the re-experiencing of the experience itself, complimented by the emotion one felt during the time of this experience. I have been asked to describe my ‘best memory’, an impossible task if taken literally due to the diversity of definitions for the word ‘best’. I, therefore, will commence a description of the memory I can recall most effectively. Unfortunately this memory is not a positive one, although the consequences of this memory have been life altering. The memory is a description of when I first found out about my mother’s cancer.

It was late December, the frosty snow and chilly atmosphere a never-ending cloud looming upon the community of North West London. I was sitting by the fire place watching TV as usual when my mother walks in, a blank expression plastered on her usually overly-expressive face. Immediately interpreting this expression as an indicator of something negative I get up and turn towards her. Her facial tension relaxes and she calmly conveys the not so surprising news that she would remain in England for a month longer to check for a possible recurrence of endometriosis, a sickness that had originally prevented her from having children. I, the naïve child of a mere 8, accepted and absorbed the information and returned to my chair.
My dad, my brother and I have returned to Sri Lanka and school has begun. The 25th of January, the date my mother had promised to return was soon approaching. I’m sitting in the Family Room with my brother watching my dad’s car return from work. Silently we wait till he crosses the garden, climbs the stairs and enters the family room. Our suspicions were confirmed, our mother would not be returning until March. March becomes April, April becomes May, the damp drops of rain from the wet season soon transform into the golden petals which light the Sri Lankan sky during the dry season. Summer is drawing nearer and I still linger under the impression that my mom may have some unknown disease that made no sense to me at all. The naïve child I was had disappeared, replaced by an intriguingly misunderstood personality with the ability to analyze experiences with understanding way beyond my years. My sadness and confusion had been converted into fury, I, in my ignorance was 'clutching to the roots of wilted flowers' (Paul S).

Just another afternoon in early June, an atmosphere composed of neutrality and fake nonchalance had defined the mood of the month. Sitting alone at my Piano, I lightly flitted through Scherzo in A and The Moth, the pieces I knew to be my mother’s favourite. The phone begins to ring, the one disturbance I deemed as absolutely unappreciated. The one disturbance I despised during my time with my Piano. I jumped up and thundered towards the obnoxious object that had dared to disturb my moment of serenity and focus. I answered the phone, immediately discontinuing its ringing. It was my mother.

I don’t remember what she said to me or how she said it, but I do remember towards the end of the phone call I was sitting in a daze near the phone, the thoughts in my mind flashing and disappearing randomly. My mind, the most organized part of my life, momentarily lost order. The one expected emotion under those circumstances is sadness, however sadness I felt not. My body was overcome with anger. Anger at the fact that both my brother and father knew of my mother’s cancer yet I, for weeks, had been left in a state of blind ignorance. My anger overwhelmed my sadness and from then on, up until now, I seldom feel sad. The appropriate sadness is always replaced by anger. Throughout my development as a person the way in which I expressed my anger evolved and became less destructive. During my years of high school my fuse grew longer and longer. My fuse has now grown so long I can control almost every emotion I experience. I can force myself to feel feelings I’ve never felt and I can force myself to ignore the feelings I feel. Selective denial I call it, but denial is accompanied by negative reactions and opinions. My type of denial is merely the ability to control my mentality.