The Cost of Never Forgetting

People often remark on my seemingly impeccable memory. They wonder what such a gift might bring them, but they do not heed my warnings. They imagine a gift so pure it could only bring joy. I insist that such a gift—though it often is—like any other phenomenon in this world, cannot escape Newton’s third law. Every gift carries a curse.

Memory is a tricky thing. Without delving into its labyrinth of nuances, we are designed to forget. We retain big ideas and feelings while discarding the unneeded and, if we are fortunate, the unwanted. Forgetting can itself be a gift. It allows the mind to move forward, to create space for the new. The pains of yesterday become little more than vague feelings without substance. Yet forgetting also carries its own curse: repeating the same mistakes, reliving the same pains, and enduring the same trials as before. Stagnation.

My memory is admittedly above average, and it is coupled with OCD. When I observe the world, I often notice the tiny things others miss—the subtle bits of beauty overlooked, the small flaws and mistakes my mind involuntarily latches onto. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and sometimes I long to know what that feels like. To be free to experience the world without the constant nagging of the unseen. To not obsess over every mistake and flaw.

When I reflect upon the world, and upon my life, I try desperately to do so earnestly. To not alter my precious memories, but simply to reflect. I do so with an unrelenting internal locus of control. As a child, I picked every fight. Blow after blow, I did not understand why, but I knew I somehow wanted it. I beckoned it. Even then, I knew I was making it happen. I am not absolving the actions of the adult who was supposed to protect me, but I am also not absolving myself. It would take decades to realize I just wanted some form of attention—and someone to blame.

The physical pain and abuse were obvious and tangible. Each slap, punch, and kick left its mark. What was less obvious to me at such a young age was the neglect and addiction that surrounded me. The pain and isolation were always there, but I needed an obvious villain, so I provoked one.

It would be easy to blame everyone who turned their backs on me when I got sober and finally understood the pain that had plagued me. But that would be disingenuous. The honest truth—the truth my obsessive memory will not let me forget—is that it was too late. In my wake lay the relationships that had meant the most to me, relationships I destroyed. Time and time again, I blamed the late-night calls and fights on alcohol. I blamed those around me for not understanding. And while there was truth in that, it was my duty to explain. I was in pain.

I had lost so much while serving, with only fragments of time to grieve. The job was bigger than the individual, and the job demanded sacrifice—mentally, physically, and mortally. The pain was there, but we were men. We were Rangers. Rangers don’t cry. Rangers don’t crumble. We “fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.”

So I provoked, often creating a villain to absorb my anger and pain. Once I saw this, I could never unsee it. All around, I noticed how often we displace our suffering onto others—ignorantly and unconsciously. I see it in myself, and I see it in others. The obsessive mind never forgets. Yes, memory is a gift, a source of rapid solutions and anecdotes of knowledge. But it is also the mind that never forgets the pain: the pain inflicted upon me, and more importantly, the pain I inflicted upon others.

These writings are my attempt to let go of those burdens—or at least lessen their weight. They give my mind the freedom to move forward, knowing there will always be a written record to reflect upon if ever needed.

Yes, this memory is a gift. But it is also an ever-present curse.

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Jake Smith is a law enforcement officer and former Army Ranger with four deployments to Afghanistan.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.