Me vs. All My Memories

writing and running

A couple days ago I found myself running in the street. I was still wearing my glasses, I didn’t realize they were on until they started slipping off my nose. I tucked them into the collar of my sweatshirt, hoping they would stay put. That’s when it hit me: I’m really out here running, how funny. My vision melted into an approachable blur—enough sight to keep going.

10 minutes earlier, I was sitting at my desk, finishing a day of writing. I was shifting into the usual evening: walking my dog, making some dinner and getting cozy. My last attempt at running was over a year ago. I had no plans to restart that exercise venture, but when I closed my laptop and plugged in the charger, a restless feeling crept into my limbs. All I wanted was to be outside going fast, or at least, faster than a walking pace. I needed a visceral way to wipe the slate of my day, which was successful in terms of work, but very challenging in the sector of mind and memory. 

A lot of what I’m currently writing takes place during a time I have willingly forgotten. I didn’t want to write this thing. When I started thinking about the concept of a book, it was specifically formed around not writing exactly what I am now writing. I decided I would make a short missive on LA: its seductive bougainvillea, quips about my time working in a restaurant where paparazzi wait out front, the difference between the air in Venice and Griffith Park. It would be a love letter of smeared tags in layered bubble letters. A confident statement: James was here. But the longer I tried to write within this neat package, I could only see what I was avoiding: the sticky context surrounding every story.

I had to face the fact that I was never fully here, until I was, which was only recently. Most of my life was spent in another reality, one that framed every scene—even the few I thought could pass as unrelated. 

I used to think that life would give me a shortcut way to live it. Some lever would click a series of cogs into place and I’d be able to tap into success. I can’t even tell you what that meant to me. My definition of success was filled with other people’s words. Of course, without a true personal vision, you can’t realize anything. My very first step was understanding that my life was my own. Everything that happens, happens to me. So what do I, James, want to experience? A question with a pulse. I’m still finding the answers. But I’m pleased and surprised by what I’ve discovered so far. Life offers no shortcuts, only the chance to slowly grow from my foundation of answers. Now that I’m waist deep in that process, I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Part of my answer has arrived from the depths of this writing project. A soft light waxing and waning on the horizon of everything I’ve forgotten. I had to own my desire to take the uncharted course. I’ve never been able to fling myself into the pre-prepared sentence, which is why it took me so long to expand. What I’m doing now leads me down the exact corridors I abandoned, where I made a home within the roles of caretaker and tragic figure. I saw my sadness as the most compelling facet of my being. I wore the past for many years, wrapping it about me until it was threadbare. 

That’s when I finally caught the current reality shimmer. I realized there might be a life worth living, beyond the confines of my old stories. 

I had to bolt the doors and toss the keys so I could find what it meant to just be me. It’s a very weird feeling, breaking loose from your own inner narrative. I never thought I would purposefully revisit the moments that defined my rinse and repeat victim mentality. But here I am, going back to that doctor’s office in West Covina, I’m getting a sandwich in the hospital cafeteria. I’m touching the sticky acrylic carpet. I’m breaking the plastic seal on a new bottle of Oxy. I’m in the bedroom, lit only by the shifting gaze of the tv, listening to my mother’s breathing. Every inhale, every exhale, confirms her heartbeat and mine. 

When I’m back in that reality, it’s normal. More normal than this life I have now. After intense visits to the past, there is a worm, a snake, a shadow, telling me I am not strong enough to merely be a guest in the realm of memory. 

Who do I think I am? 

Another question with sentience: getting under my skin, squirming. A nervous sensation without the high pitched harmony. Could I get sucked back to those old corridors, trapped in their maze, escorted by feelings alone? 

A weird question can only be countered with a weirder idea: I should go for a run. I can grab those old sneakers, I can throw on a sweatshirt. My body is my strongest connection to the present. I feel lucky to be able to exercise. I go to cardio classes for the blood, pilates for the muscle. Yoga every so often for the silence. In the past, sporadic running has led to injury, but now it might be the thing that saves me. 

I put on Boyfriend’s apple watch, connect my one functioning air pod to the bluetooth and click on the downloaded playlist marked Run. 

Without hesitation I just start. 

Pain flashes in my ankles for the first minute—I’m happy it’s not my knees. I have to keep going, I do not believe I am myself just yet. I want to believe that I am here for real right now. To do that, I need to feel my body, in this moment, feet, pavement, feet, pavement, feet, pavement. The drum of my heart, the sting of blood in my thighs. Every inhale, every exhale: mine alone.

I was able to run a mile—not much by real runner’s standards—but I haven’t run a full mile since I was….19?? My body is here, my body is mine.

Now I’m back to walking the corridors of memory with a flashlight, writing and breathing and waiting and asking and waiting. I am not my stories, my stories are mine.

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