The Power of Memory: Finding Truth in Metaphors and Stories

Finding Safety in the Sticky Sludge of Memory

I remember my paternal grandmother’s house being full of tar. A yellow couch slick with sludge. The floor, plush with stickiness.

I was only in her house up until I was around 3, so these memories are conjured from stories my mother told about the filth and cigarette smoke in the house that she swore caused my asthma. In my memory, it is as if I am in James’ giant peach, only less nourishing, but it is perhaps just as much a sanctuary for me. I don’t remember my grandmother well, only that she called me Joe Shmoe, rather than my name. But this too may be hearsay rather than memory, since I was so young at the time. What I do remember is that sometimes, when my maternal grandmother threatened to send me back to my father and his mother, I felt strangely ready to be stuck in the wet tar of these memories, and sometimes the sludge felt like safety. The reality of being with my mom was much worse than sinking in this tar flesh.

James’ Peach, Tar, and the Power of Metaphorical Escapes

Memory is fuzzy, like James’ peach. I always wished to have a similar escape, to climb into an object and live in it. To be safe inside of the throat of an orchid, to pollinate my own future. And in my dream memories, I was. Being inside the tar was at least a predictable image and fate. In my dreams I am often an adventurer in this environment, a Honey I Shrunk the Kids-type caper, stealing to dry ground in dust bunnies. When I was 5, I visited MGM studios and plastered myself against a giant cobweb, pretending to be stuck, like in the tar: “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go.” I closed my eyes and pretended I’d never have to leave. Until my mom called me to her, and the peach humid air, bug hummed after a rainstorm, continued to be more terrifying than any tar-stuffed dream.

Why I Chose  Metaphor Over Hypnosis to Process My Past

A therapist once asked me if I wanted her to hypnotize me so I could learn what realities these fantasies wallpapered. So that instead of sinking I could “live my truth.” But there is truth in this stickiness. There is comfort. There is a whole dreamwork I have created. I am a storyteller and with these stories I cushion myself with as much tar as I can. I peach myself thick with metaphor. And this metaphor is a truth that keeps my world strung. The whole world is optics: a glass with water is either half full or empty. The world is the stories we tell ourselves to survive. Why would I ever want to get rid of them?