FIRST MEMORIES

When I go to my “first” memories, this is what's there...

I imagine I was around three years old or so. Everything is up, above my head and I’m looking at things from below. I’m in my house, alone at this moment in the room. I can hear my parents in the next room.  It’s daytime in Montevideo, Uruguay.

I’m just sitting there, looking at everything it seems for the first time.  I have this feeling running through me that’s very new and unfamiliar. I feel I don’t belong here. This is not “home”.  I wonder what I’m doing here, whatever this place is.

It feels very harsh, and more than anything, very noisy. I can hear the noise outside and the voices of people in the distance.  I defenitely want to go “back home.”

When I say “home” I don’t have a picture in my mind. It’s a feeling in my chest.  It feels warm, completely safe, peaceful and I’m so happy there.  This place here feels just the opposite to me.

I keep looking around wondering what’s going to happen next.  I’m convinced that this is a mistake of some kind. I wonder when am I going “back.”  I remember thinking, “maybe after I close my eyes.”  “Maybe the next time, I’ll wake up at home, the same way I woke up in this place today... I wonder how I got here?”

This is how far this memory goes for me.

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Right after this one, comes one around the very same time. It could be the same day, or the same week, or the same month... I had no notion of time then.  I just know that I’m still seeing everything from below, like in my previous memory, so I‘m very young.

Now I’m outside walking down the sidewalk with my father.  It’s daytime, it’s a nice day.  The street is big, the traffic is very noisy to me.  I feel like I have no space in my head because this noise takes it all.  My father’s holding my hand as we walk.  Our hands hold together at above my head.  I’m walking like small children walk when they hold hands with adults, they have their little arm up.  I look at my father and he’s thinking about many things right now, he’s not aware of me thinking, or looking at him.  I don’t understand how all this noise doesn’t bother anyone else, including him.  He feels so rushed and stressed too.  I don’t like this place.  I don’t like this feeling.  This place is too harsh and very, very noisy.  I don’t belong here.

I wonder how come I didn’t go home from the last time I looked around.  How come "they" (?) didn’t correct this mistake.  I remember also thinking, “oh well, I’ll just be here for a while until I get to go back.”  I remember the feeling of resignation, not waiting any more to “wake up” at “home” the next time.  Understanding that I was going to be here for a while, whatever “a while” means.  Maybe a few days... a few months...

I felt completely alone and “taken away” from “home.”  I was here, in this (horrible to me) place, to stay, all alone.  There was no fear, no panic. I remember the resignation and the sadness instead. I was quiet.

Every time I celebrate a birthday, I know I'm closer to going back "home."    :-)

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I don’t think I was talking at this point yet because during these two memories, I don’t even attempt to ask questions to anyone or communicate.  These thoughts that I put into words now, were also more felt than thought at that point.  They were not any less real.  I see this as the beginning of my life~