Revisionist History

When I was younger, my family lived in a three-bedroom apartment in North Carolina. I remember that my parents slept in the first bedroom on the right, and my sister, brother, and I all shared the next bedroom – the master bedroom. And I remember the room at the end of the hall was where we would set up our Christmas tree.

The coolest thing I remembered about our apartment was that our bedroom had three twin beds, and my sister, brother, and I (or at least I) would jump from one bed to the next. It was a blast. I also remember a huge hill across the parking lot from our apartment.

Well, a few years back, I had the opportunity to return to the old apartment. Evidently, the “huge hill” really wasn’t. But then again, my twenty-something year old eyes were relying on the memories of a six year old.

As for the beds – well, my sister recently informed me that they didn't exist either. We apparently never had twin beds in North Carolina. Rather, the room had a crib and a full bed. That’s it. So clearly, there was no jumping going on.

So now, my clearest memories of my three years in North Carolina include:
• sitting in the kitchen watching a Daddy Longleg walk up my arm, not freaked out until my family showed up and told me not to panic while my dad got out a fly swatter and “saved” me;
• eating my first cereal – Apple Jacks, still an occasional favorite – when we first moved in;
• getting a splinter, then getting to choose who got to watch “Gilligan’s Island” and eat ice cream with me afterwards. I don’t remember whom I chose, but I know everyone ended up watching it; and
• going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and falling in because somebody didn’t put the seat down.

Yeah, that about sums it up. I have a few more memories, but I’m afraid to mention them because these may all turn out to be false, too. Maybe that’s why I’m a writer. I can make up all the memories I want and nobody can say they didn’t happen because I’m making up the characters that these events happen to, too. It’s quite empowering, really.

In college, I decided that regret was useless. Really, if I’m happy with who I am today, then I have no reason to regret anything, because anything different in my past would mean that I would be a different person today. And for the most part, I still believe that to be true. Of course, I’m also the kind of person who will rehearse a line over and over before I say anything, to make sure I won’t be misunderstood and my words won’t offend.

But now, there’s an added reason not to regret anything. If I don’t actually remember events in my past, then how could I be sure I did anything wrong?

How’s that for a great defense?