The first time I came back to Seattle as an autonomous adult it was to do a reading with Inga and Ariel. As we drove around town I was overwhelmed with a set of unwanted emotions – nostalgia, longing, the intense choking claustrophobia of the place.
Memories I had long before stored away came back so fast I was breathless with anxiety. Inga asked what was wrong and when I told her I was sad she offered to make out with me to cheer me up. I replied No thank you – I don’t think that will help and laid down across the back seat of the car, closing my eyes.
The problem with the memories is the fact that they are too ambiguous: dramatic and honestly horrific scenes do not stand alone. I remember rage and fear, shattered glass, the sound of bones breaking. I remember smelling blood for so long I didn’t know how to taste anything at all.
But I also have these perfect small recollections of learning to drive on impossible hills. Laughing with my friends as we did silly pranks. Swimming at night. Riding the ferry home from shows. The intense confusion and sweetness of first love. Kissing a beautiful boy on a desolate beach. Letting someone touch me.
Both the good and the bad memories have faded with time. I grew up, moved away, came back long enough to prove whatever point I needed to make. Sometimes I feel sad when I think about what was wasted, but I am never angry at the people who hurt me. I know that I hurt them just as much – and I’m the one who escaped. I’m the one who is privileged enough to write the story.
Now that I am older I can see Inga’s point. It would have been much better to surrender to hedonism rather than letting the flickering mental images overwhelm a day in the city.