The Past Is Written



The past is written, and cannot be erased.



Going back isn't so easy anymore.



When I was young, only some four years after humanity's greatest endowment, I would travel back all the time. And quite the gift it was!

Imagine for a moment (although I expect all of you know this firsthand) a child of 12, experiencing multiple snow days in a row, or an additional birthday party the very day after their first! Even a Christmas in October, when those final two months were unbearably drawn-out.



Thirty-some years since the Gift, we now know that an adult's capabilities of going back far outweigh that of a child. It's thought that this is due to synaptic pruning in an adult's brain, allowing them to be more efficient while focusing on core memories, and purging others. A child may require roughly 4 hours to re-experience a 24-hour day, while any neurotypical adult may be able to experience the same in 25 to 30 minutes.



The first benefactors of the Gift provide a simpler explanation: that a child simply focuses more on their immediate present, and sees more purpose in re-experiencing their time for its own sake, rather than going back to accomplish a specified aim.



So, as many eleven year-olds did, I tended to only go back a few days at a time, experiencing all the joys my suburban childhood had to offer me. I could be home from school by 3 in the afternoon, and have lounged my way through a day of sleeping-in and gaming before the night reached 7. What a time, when those memories held only peace.



And now, as I encroach closer and closer to 40, I attempt to go back further, resisting every fiber of my being begging me to just stay put and carry on with my day.

Of course, like most of us these days, I shut that voice deep inside.



I wake up at half past 11 in my twin bed, Bosco curled up at my feet. Stretching upright to begin my fantastic day, I catch a glimpse of my father shoveling the driveway in that subzero winter of '99. I do not observe him for more than a few seconds, and immediately make my way downstairs, gobbling up the smiley-face pancakes (with chocolate chips) that were waiting for me. My mother rushes out the door just as I sit down, clearly in a hurry for something. She didn't mention what it was. I spend the rest of the day in the basement, playing video games while my parents spend the whole day out.



My eyes roll forwards, and I am back in my loft. I waste no time however, and go back again, and again.



I blow out my candles surrounded by friends, seated across from a man whose face once seemed perfectly ordinary to me. I quickly unwrap my presents, now unable to ignore the peculiar spots taking shape on him.



Of course, I cannot alter the my memories. I cannot play a second less of that game and help shovel the snow. I cannot speak a different phrase, nor listen better than I did 30 years ago. I cannot reach for an extra hug, or lay a moment longer with him on the couch.



The past is written, and cannot be erased. We knew this when we were gifted our ability, of course. Even without being able to change anything, what a blessing to be able to go back and relive those nostalgic days. The good ole' days! The golden years, when life was without worry or want!



When we have visitors to our system, we always use the same metaphor to describe our experience: we can simply "replay the film." Nothing more, nothing less. What was unaccounted for however, was the lens in which those memories were replayed.

No one could have anticipated that those acting the part could experience different sensations than they did on first filming. The script is the same, but the subtext is wiped clean.



I unwrap my gifts, but am screaming to move my head up. To only lift my neck up a few inches, and see his healthy face from a new angle.



I blow out all 11 candles, and make a wish only an older, regretful man could comprehend.



I play video games for an excruciating seven hours trapped in that tiny flesh prison, looking for any way to move my legs and walk outside. To help him even for a minute. I pray. Just a minute. Just a minute and I'll go back to the script. Allow me to deviate for a moment and I will never perform an impromptu scene again.



Why then, do I continue to go back? The same can be asked of us all. Countless studies in the last three decades have all but proven that the rate at which one goes back correlates linearly with increasing negative association. I sometimes wonder if we would have just been better off without the Gift. Perhaps our brains were created perfectly as they originally were. Yes, we have bad memories, and we have good memories. As we age, those memories are placed more and more into one of those boxes. They lose the nuance that they held only weeks or months after occurring, but their legacy stays with us. Those boxes are what allow us to move on in life. To categorize our life by the good and not so great times. We may forget the memory, but we hold onto the feeling.



I ask myself if we've thrown ourselves into turmoil by experiencing childhood memories through an adults eyes. We strip them of all innocence, of all simplicity that they had to offer us. We hone in on the selfishness of our young nature, and mock our lack of understanding of the surrounding world.



I don't know why we as a species chose this. I ask myself that question after every trip. I suppose, I hope that one day I'll see these experiences through their original and unblemished lens. I'll wake up and won't be the stupid child that allowed his father to toil in the cold, or the ungrateful son who didn't pay enough attention to him on my birthday. I'll only see the boy that knew he loved his father, that would do anything for him had he asked.



The past is written, and cannot be erased.



I, however, will keep trying.