MY FIRST MEMORIES
MY FIRST MEMORIES (CHAPTER 1)
They say that creating new memories is the best thing that can happen to you. Remembering a person—whether smiling, crying, or with an important expression—can leave a lasting impact on your life. But… don’t you think memories are overrated? Don’t you think that having memories in the future leads to consequences? Don’t you think more and more people complain about the things they remember?
I am already an older person with a life that is not so normal—I suppose, or at least I want to believe that. Why? Honestly, I think I was never truly happy, and if I was, I never realized it or enjoyed it. My name is Rafael, and I am going to tell you a little about myself so that you understand the context of why I am sharing this story with you—and why, although I probably don’t have a valid reason, I hate all the memories I have.
Let’s go back to when I was just a few years old—an age I can’t really specify because even my relatives don’t remember when it happened. What could be so memorable that, after all these years, I still recall things from such a young age? A scar that would mark me for life.
My parents remember me as a happy and energetic child, but I would deny that opinion. My younger self was happy but didn’t have a proper sense of caution. Without realizing the risks, I ran back and forth down the hallway of a residential building as if someone were chasing me to hurt me—although, deep down, I knew I was just playing. Everything was fun until my foolish self failed to notice that someone opened their apartment door. And yes, I ended up smashing my face against the neighbor’s door.
I don’t remember much about that day, but the memory it left behind—I see it every day when I look in the mirror. That unforgettable experience left me with a scar, a line on the right side of my face that clearly says, “I was stupid.” I’ve always felt that this scar makes me look older than I should.
But anyway, as a child, I obviously didn’t remember well too much on what happened that day, because the memory wouldn’t fully exist until I grew older and realized how my face had changed. But I still wonder—do all children have stories like this to tell? And if every little memory we create and hold on to is what makes us different from one another, doesn’t that mean we are all shaped by the things we remember?
Now, let’s talk about my early school days—kindergarten. My relatives say I was adorable, mainly because I wasn’t a child with a normal weight. I must emphasize that, for my age, I was quite obese, and because of that, my chubby cheeks were the most adorable thing for the parents. But… could everything those parents said back then have affected my personality? Could my weight have influenced the way I am today?
I’m sorry if my constant questioning bothers you—knowing that I can’t change anything about my past—but I would love to understand how a child becomes so outgoing or so introverted. How do some people develop strong social skills while others have none? I want to figure out why no one I know seems to be truly happy.
I will share one last childhood anecdote to make sure we are all on the same page as this story continues.
When I was still in kindergarten, I remember how cheerful all the kids were. They looked at everything with curiosity and a desire to understand how things worked—but once they figured things out, they quickly lost interest. I was always a bit different. I remember that outside the kindergarten, there was a large meadow separated by a fence.
I would always stare at that fence, longing to cross it, to feel the grass beneath my feet—to feel “free,” or at least that’s what I thought at the time. But only the older kids who had graduated from kindergarten were allowed to go there. Can you believe that when I finally had the freedom to run through that meadow, to cry or play or do whatever I wanted—I turned out to be allergic to the grass? I couldn’t even touch it without breaking out in rashes all over my legs.
And that was my life. I still don’t know if I was normal or if I’ve always been overly dramatic about my experiences. But there was always something that made me feel different—or made me act differently.
