Utterly freaky: a mystery of memory

Wednesday, July 9th, 2008

Ever had one of those moments when you realise a celestial ball has been set in motion, the fates shifting a gear? I have had a recurring dream for some months now, not every night but usually once a week, in which I am struggling to remember the surname of someone who was my friend back in 1987 when I first lived in London, just for a year. I don’t ever recall the circumstances of the dream; all I know, in the dreamscape, is that I must remember this friend’s surname, and from that a full remembrance of other friends associated with him will fall into place. Moreover, I had to find this friend. That’s what I knew or was told in the dream.

I don’t know why, or how, or what, and come the morning—I never wake from the dream directly, or at least I don’t think so—I’m left with a feeling of strangeness that takes a few morning coffees to shift.

1987 was a year of multiple psychological traumas for me, from leaving home for the first time and finding myself in what became a terrifyingly oppressive born-again Christian community, to coming out, to some experiences when I moved to London that could have scarred me for life were I a different person. But there was a price to pay for recovery, namely a very poor memory of most events and people I encountered during that year. Sadly, I remember the big events but none of the details—names, addresses, smaller happenings—that underscored them. I had, in effect, a kind of breakdown and it took a return to study and a return home to start the healing process that led to my eventual return, stronger and more prepared, to the capital city. I got my first degree, I went into journalism, and eventually I met my ultimate beloved.

I have long been bothered by the gaps in my memory, but understand that the mind has its own ways of coping: erase a big slice of data, throw the baby out with the bathwater, and it can help you to survive. But my mental address book of the time contained some dear friends and fun experiences, I know it did. So the question for me has always been, ever since, was all that mind-data wiped forever or simply made inaccessible to protect me until such time as I needed no protection. Perhaps, 21 years later, the dream signifies that my mind is opening up dusty boxes in the attic because it knows sufficient time has passed to allow a reassessment. I don’t know how I managed to lose contact with three dear friends from back in the day, but I did. And I’ve no idea why I was able to keep access to their first names but not their surnames.

So, the dream, and what followed on from it. About two weeks ago, I was gardening—doing something utterly mundane—when a voice in my head (no, I’m not turning into Joan of Arc, you hopefully know what I mean) simply said the full name of the one friend out of the three said, in my dream, to hold the unlocking key. Just like that, it came. I stopped what I was doing, shook my head, marvelled at the weirdness, and then realised that I had already forgotten, almost within seconds of the experience of recall, or reminder, or simply being told. The frustration was palpable. What was my mind playing at?

But then, late yesterday evening, I was watching TV—the behind-the-scenes Doctor Who Confidential–and that friend’s full name came to me again, in the same way, and totally unconnected to what I was doing.

This time I rushed to the computer and typed the name into Facebook, because I didn’t trust my memory given that it failed me on that score for so many years. I thought, maybe the information is wrong. Maybe that’s not the surname. But I found my old friend, still alive, with a photograph of him wearing a huge hat that immediately brought to mind that he always had a penchant for silly headgear in 1987. My mind was immediately flooded with good memories that had been stubbornly inaccessible since that year. Lots of the experiences I recognised; others felt new, so deeply had they been buried.

It always annoyed me that my post-1987 mind allowed the recall of the most painful events of that year, but locked down all the happy ones. Now so many have resurfaced. I’ve no idea if I’ve got everything back, but I’ve certainly got a lot of great stuff: clubbing memories with my friends, visiting them in their places of work and homes, doing all sorts of daft and at times crazy stuff that people in their late teens and early 20s do. One friend was responsible for enthusing me about Pete Burns and Dead or Alive, for teaching me the campest dance moves possible to songs by Bananarama. And no, I don’t think at the age I am today I could ever give people a repeat performance of the dancefloor trickery we practised together. Another friend was a punky goth working as a secretary in Baker Street, the home of the fictional Sherlock Holmes. She got me into Marc Almond and Soft Cell, who she adored to near-stalker level. All three attended my 21st birthday party.

None of those memories are bad, so why were they stuck in my vault? They lift my spirit to remember them now.

I checked out my old friend’s list of friends on Facebook, and marvelled at finding the other two people I’d long wanted to find. The dream told the truth: finding the one was the key to unlocking all three. All sounds a bit Matrix-y, doesn’t it? You know, take this or that pill and bam!

I sent contact messages to all three friends, and so far have had one of them reply, confirming that yes, I’ve found them, and asking what, where, how, but obviously pleased to hear from me. I am so pleased they have remained friends for 21 years. It’s brilliant. My regret is that I lost touch, albeit not so much my fault but a means by which my mind helped me move on from other, not at all desirable, connections made and experiences endured back then. I didn’t ask my head to take drastic measures. It just happened.

All these friends, I hasten to add, one woman, two men, were platonic but oh—they were wonderful, and really helped me take the first steps to becoming my true self. I wonder how much they’ve changed in the intervening years. I know I have, the 41-year-old person I am today is light-years distant from that skinny 21-year-old, although the core of who I am remains as constant and enduring as ever.

But why now? Why the dream? Why the voice giving me the information I’d long sought inside my own skull to no avail—until now? There’s more than a whiff of the psychic, the so-called paranormal, the marvellously mysterious, about all this. And I noticed one of those friends belongs to the same city network on Facebook as I do, Leeds, which is not far from where I live today, hundreds of miles from London where we met and became friends in 1987. Assuming Leeds is where he lives, or somewhere within the network’s catchment area, that’s as uncanny as everything else about this tale.

The ball is rolling, a mechanism set in motion. That’s what I sense. Whatever comes of this, if anything beyond what has already happened with the dream and (presumably though not necessarily inner) voice, I find myself feeling very excited and even a little overwhelmed. Life is strange. People are strange. I know I am strange. But strange can be very, very good.

I don’t think I’ll have the dream again. It’s achieved its aim. Whatever that was.