Contested Memories
I’ve never been in a relationship with someone who was all—or even almost all—bad. Every past boyfriend has had his charms and every past relationship has involved life-enriching experiences that I would not otherwise have had. So it’s odd to me the extent to which my old flames are divided in my memory into those whom I think of fondly—having to make a concerted effort to remember glaring incompatibilities, harsh realisations and bitter tears—and those with whom the memories of glory days are hidden behind more prominent bad associations. Some relationships are show houses and my memory is a skilled but unethical estate agent, pointing out period features and praising the convenient location, while discreetly directing the buyer’s attention away from tell-tale mould spots and ceiling cracks and making sure to schedule a visiting time when the electric-guitar-playing neighbour is out. Others are dusty attics filled with broken-down computer equipment, stained mattresses and a rattling box of electrical cables that connect to nothing and I have to rummage past all the junk to find any treasure.
Of course, memories of a relationship are shared memories: and in many cases, for one person the good things are front and centre, while the other person struggles to remember anything good at all. I find myself in a situation of that kind right now, with an old boyfriend who has been briefly back in touch with me, a quarter of a century after we broke up (we wrote each other letters for a few months after our split and have encountered each other on at least two occasions since, but the most recent of those dates back to the 1990s). Let me crystal clear: nothing terrible happened; there was no abuse; I have no accusations to make; I bear no scars. And yet, while he is happily touring the show home, I am standing at the door to the attic, unwilling to even go inside, skin crawling at the thought that there will be spiders there.