Some of my readers finds my blog name a little wierd. But to me, it’s nothing but perfect. You know, when PM kept on pushing me to make my own blog, the hardest part of all is thinking of a name… and mine apparently is ‘neurotic sister’, that gain a lot of attention. So for those who have thier neurons burning, here’s the stroy behind it.
And it all starts with PM.
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Flash of light.
I don’t have memories.
My neurotic sister and I would often argue about this; we don’t really fight though, but just a little inclined towards what we call ‘aggressive negotiations’. The crack on her head formed when she entered college and had that bitter-sweet chance to spend a little more time with me, wher in time, it didn’t take much for her to find out about my condition. And boy, was she horrified when she realized I am not but a Dory-type case of short term memmory loss, but rahter a condition that falls within the lines of a big word: dissociative amnesia. Upon her knowing of my self-diagnosis, she went balastic, but i told her like it was nonsense, “hey, at least it’s not Alzheimers.”
Although me not having memories to laugh of\r cry with is not the best thing that could ever happen to me, I really do not mind it very much. I get by normally in any case anyway, and it’s not like everything on my buzzing head is wiped clean, mind you. It’s not total amnesia, but as the case in dissociatives, you have the capacity to remember a few things which your not-so-brilliant mind defined nerve and there but still, the remaining great chunk of your stuff for nostalgia is blank; so unlike amnesia where you loose everything, I say, I’m still lucky.
It is on this light that my annoying sister started to generate ideas on how to make me remember. Once she bought me this really cute journal, but after realizing I’m too lazy to write down anything, she knew her plan A failed. I knew she was upset when she told me, “Ang problema sayo, wala ka na ngang maalala, di ka pa gumawa ng paraan para makaalala.”
Sigh. I don’t know if I want to pity my sister or not because she does not understand. Well, maybe she’s too young to understand. Sometimes, not remembering can make you survive.
I developed over-the-top picky memory cells when I was a child, maybe somehow between pre-school or primary school, heck, i don’t remember. I was bullied as a child, by my classmates. And that’s all I could recall. Again, when my crackpot sister found out about this, she asked me like some toddler querying about the moon, “Kung ilang bagay lang ang natatandaan mo, bakit yung masasakit at malulungkot pa ang napili mo?’
At first, I didn’t know how to react, because I realized that for one she’s right, and second, it was a bit harsh to hear, what my condition gave me. Yes it’s true, that’s all I could remember – those times when I was so mad or hurt. The happy times, memories, or experiences I have were just flashes on my mind, a couple of sentences that I could remember what happened and that’s it, no more, no less. It’s a bit sad, like a sudden flash of light from somewhere, but unlike the usual yellow, it was gray. And as if it was a shift of roles, my sister-turned-zen added, “Hindi ako sigurado kung yang utak mo ang may problema o ikaw talaga. Kaya nagiging alzheimers ka kasi masyado mong dinidibdib yung mga nakasakit sayo, kahit ang tagal-tagal na. It’s what, 20 years! Yun lang ang nasa isip mo, kaya hindi ka sumaya, kaya wala kang maalalang masaya. I don’t know, ikaw naman yan eh, are you terrified to associate yourself with your experiences kasi you’re too afraid of rejection?’
Okay, that was that for her speech. It was surprising I didn’t thought she was insane, for a change, and before I slept that night, her words started to work maddeningly slow, as if all the intellect she put into the analysis of my condition was a every lucid truth in this world. I began to question the few memories I held in my mind, the experiences I could remember and tried so bad to focus on those events I knew happened but couldn’t recall the details. I thought about the times when I was happy. And it took a painfull hard time to reach a recollection, but when I did, it felt so good.
After sometime of ruminating and defense, me against my brain, I came to a conclusion that it’s time to let go. I have only a handful of memories on my head, and i realized it would be best if I ‘consciously’ forget about them and was brave enough to decide to want to fill it with new ones. It will be very tough, but i had to start somewhere.
Just recently, after being away from home for sometime, I went back and found my crazy sister on our room, busy tossing some of her stuff. I smiled. I guess I owe her one. She hasn’t noticed me so I called her, and “click!” I got my first picture in my camera.
So maybe sometimes not remembering can make you survive, but hey, I guess there are moments where remembering can save you.
* * *
This is an award-winning piece made by PM in an essay writing competition that took her to Zambales to join a higher level of writng competition against students from all the colleges and state universities in RegionIII, where she won third place.
Apparently, I was the ‘neurotic – crazy – harsh – sister’ in the story. But mind, among all her write-ups, this one I loved most. Not because I’m in it, but because of the love there is in each and every word.
So that’s that. The end. 
Dipped in Milk