A sense of memory

It all began while I was standing in the laundry room the other day washing yet another load of diapers. I was thinking about how I have been paying to do my laundry for a very long time and then I started to find a memory of doing laundry when I lived in Montreal and I realized I have none. None. Not one.

Photo by Malias

Obviously, clinic I must have done laundry at some point – I lived there for three and a half years and I know for certain I didn’t leave my laundry until I came home at Christmas. The fact that I couldn’t easily dig up any memories started to bother me and so I tried to painstakingly recreate the apartments and apartment buildings I lived in – in my mind of course – to see if it would jog a memory. It didn’t.

One building, healing on Rue Jeanne-Mance, I lived in twice (two different apartments, two different non-consecutive years). I know there were no facilities in the apartments themselves (we barely had a stove in one of them – it had two burners of which only one worked and the oven was too small for a tray of muffins) but I have no memory of carrying a laundry basket to the basement and hanging out while clothes were being washed. I also have no memory of going outside of the apartment to do laundry – and one would think that given how cold Montreal winters are I would have some memory of trudging through snow to St. Laurent with a bag full of dirty clothes to hang out in a Laundromat.

I have no memory of ever going into a Laundromat.

Another apartment was in a nice building on the Esplanade across from the mountain. (Or the “mountain” if you are from Alberta.) I lived in the basement and am thinking maybe I had laundry in my suite since I don’t recal anyone else coming to the basement since mine was the only apartment. I have memories of studying on the couch and seeing some guy jerking off in the window while he watched me read my history textbook. But no memory of laundry. (Maybe it was the dirty clothes that got him excited?)

It really bothers me when I find big chunks of my memory missing. It isn’t as if doing laundry itself is a particularly memorable experience – but it is a rather big part of ones day to day life. When I am under stress I tend to block out/forget a lot of things and, although I didn’t realize it then, my time in Montreal was very stressful – fueled by a lot of self doubt, a wild boyfriend and way too much alcohol. Unfortunately I can’t remember what else I have forgotten.

Maybe that is a good thing.

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