Telling stories

A couple months ago I had an opportunity to participate in a spoken-word storytelling project where individuals share real-life experiences around a theme. The theme I participated in was Total Recall, and I wanted to share that story here. 

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I’ve had so many moments over the course of my life that came to mind when I heard the theme of Total Recall. Moments of recall so visceral it takes my breath. Moments that contain an entire lifetime in the space of heart beat. I am shaped by those moments and continue to be influenced by them.

Most of my strongest moments of recall are related to music.

One moment was my first husband’s death and the recall that I have around it changes. Sometimes it’s hearing a song or phrase that will take me back to a moment in our life together - I have these memories of sitting on the boardwalk outside a pub, enjoying a drink and people watching and sunshine; I remember feeling so thoroughly content with my life and my choices, and so invincibly happy. We had this favourite song with the line: Someday there will be a cure for pain, that’s the day I throw my drugs away. When I hear that song now, I’m taken back to that moment when I felt like I had it all; that husband took his own life and the knowledge that his pain couldn’t be cured knocks me to my knees.

Another moment for me is with my dad when I was a little girl. My dad suffered from substance addiction when I was growing up and was often absent. My parents were split up and I didn’t see him often. He had a traumatic childhood and didn’t really know how to be a dad. He was this kind, loving person who got buried beneath drugs and alcohol. When we spent time together we were often in his garage working on his motorcycle. I had my own tool set and workbench, and he would teach me how to work on engines and fix things.

We would have the radio on and there were a few songs that required us to stop what we were doing and give ourselves to the music. One song was Drift Away by Dobie Gray. My dad was not a playful person; he was this reserved, stern-faced guy. He didn’t play, or rough-house, or cut loose. But when Drift Away came on the radio he would transform somehow. He would dance me around the garage, swaying to the music and singing along.

My dad died a couple years ago and when that song comes up in my playlist, everything stops for me and I have to cry and sing at the top of my voice and have a moment for my dad. My dad who was not playful or lighthearted, but would sing into a wrench like it was a microphone when his favourite songs came on the radio. My dad, who was not around for most of my childhood but who somehow managed to make me understand that he loved me.

I hear that song and I am infused with feelings of safety and security and protection. My dad was probably the first person to ever make me feel that way.

There is a part of the song that says “The world outside looks so unkind, so I’m counting on you to carry me through”. When I think about my childhood with my dad, that sort of sums up how life was for us. The world was hard and painful, and even if he did it imperfectly he carried me through. He taught me to be stoic when life gets hard, and he taught me that life didn’t revolve me and that things were going to hurt my feelings, and that I would be okay.

He straightened his life up once I was an adult; he got back together with my mom, got sober, and became a sort of informal mentor to others. He became a person people could count on, someone with wisdom and kindness to share. It was the most amazing thing to witness.

I also have a lot of less pleasant memories of my dad but when I think about the net impact of my experiences with him, it’s the good memories that hold the most power over me. That feeling of safety I have when I think about him dancing in the garage is more important to me than anything else.

How I process information and form memories is often about how I feel about a situation at my core, and less about what actually happened. That’s a huge problem in our society, that we rely more on how we feel than what is actually happening. But it has a funny way of playing out in my head.

My grandmother, my mom’s mom, was sometimes hard to be around. I went to visit her with my mom a few years ago; during that visit my grandma pulled a file out of her cabinet - every single letter or card I ever gave her was in that file. From the time I could hold a crayon, through my 20s when I reduced our relationship to cards in the mail - she saved them all. I can’t even begin to imagine what it means but when I think about how it makes me feel - I feel loved.

My husband’s death was probably the single most devastating experience of my life but after nearly 20 years what I remember, what I feel when I think about him is that he made me feel loved and the life I’ve been living since his death is one that has brought me tremendous happiness. It’s awkward for me to acknowledge the cause and effect relationship there, but it’s undeniable.

My mother in law once told me that no matter what I said, I should always make sure the message of love comes through. When I reflect on my experiences, good and bad, my memory is informed on whether or not I felt loved. I connect with others based on whether or not I feel loved. I want to be the sort of person who inspires love in others, the sort of person others can feel safe with. I don’t always know how to do it, but the desire is there.