On Deleting My "memories"

 

There’s not much that’s worth saving on my Facebook page.
Which, if we’re all teenagers inside, on some level, feels like some kind of damning admission about my coolness, and maybe it is, but maybe the algorithm can’t count that high, either.  (The truth is somewhere in the middle, probably, but I thought I’d float some major self-confidence out there, see if it will ever feel like it fits.Not exactly, but I’m not cringing and deleting it, in the smallest of small victories…and I’m No News Lady, so that? Counts as bragging right now. Go me.)

What the site counts as Memories, only bears the slightest relation to the mystery and alchemy of the human brain telling itself stories anyway, of course. I wish there weren’t so many mass shootings and other tragedies that terms like “horrific incident” blended together enough that I couldn’t remember which.

Every time I delate a complaint, or some lengthy account of a rejection, I feel a little spark of freedom.  Maybe not enough to have a whole new day, but maybe that will free me up to see the past differently; maybe that could almost be as good. Maybe I could move forward differently.  I’d like to imagine it. There are some days I really wish I could truly erase.

Unlike some of my friends right now, I’m not trying to hold on to some vanished, happier day.(That probably says something, too, about my capacity to ever build something that was ever mine in the first place, but it’s probably not positive to think about that.)