I remember the morning my arms felt disconnected from my body. It was pleasant, lying there, helpless and lifeless and warm. I kept thinking about how nice it would be to do away with it all, all of my body, and just float away on the currents of the summer. We really are so heavy. 

I remember every time I woke up from a nap in January feeling mystifyingly sad—like I kept dreaming something tragic, but could never remember what it was. 

I remember my best Valentines Day being the one when you wrote me a song on the ukulele. I both really loved myself for being special to someone, and hated myself for being such a nauseating cliché. 

I remember finding my 4th grade diary hidden in the smallest compartment of my 4th grade backpack. I decided to read it so I opened it up and all it said for 8 straight pages was “stop loving him,” written over and over again in angry capital letters. I sat there for a half an hour, staring at my messy, nine year old handwriting, trying to remember the impassioned, childhood night when I filled a diary with the promise that I would give up on someone. I still can’t remember who I was writing about.

I remember you being the only person to realize that I liked to run away. You asked me what I was trying to leave behind and I wanted to say something remarkably teenager like my parents or the pressure. But when I really thought about it I realized I was running for the sake of doing so; I was running from the fact that I was boring.

I remember this summer tutoring program I did a few years back. I taught a kid name Joey to add multi-digit numbers and his mother hugged me because she was afraid he’d never understand math. I’m still convinced I’ll never be more fulfilled than I was in that moment. 

I remember jumping in the fountain at Millennium Park when it was 30 degrees and raining. I was splashing and shivering and surrounded by 80 story buildings and they were surrounded by clouds. As the rain fell hard on the skyscrapers, I imagined they trembled with me. I felt the whole city shake. 

I remember not remembering the night I first tried whiskey.

I remember telling my father I couldn’t believe in a God and him telling me that he couldn’t believe I was his daughter. 

I remember drinking French wine and eating French cheese on French crackers in a 1.5 million dollar apartment, while watching children’s educational television and thinking that we were playing out some sad extended metaphor for the rest of my life. 

who have been so supportive of my writing and my “memory project” and all of these arbitrary, poetic, introspections I post. 

This whole nonfiction binge has been sort of a test to see if I can make honesty artistic and if I can make my life interesting or revelatory or worth writing about. 

And I’ve been pretty scared to post a lot of these very personal anecdotes. I think I’m more honest in writing than I am with anyone, and I still have a lot of thoughts that I have to find the courage to share. 

So I just wanted to say that all of your support means the world because honesty is scary and intimate and sometimes uninteresting, but I’m starting to think that it might be worth it. 

I remember the first time I met you. We were on a train into the city, and you pulled out all these books like you were going to read them. I asked you if you just unpacked them to look impressive, and you laughed and said that that was exactly the reason. 

I remember one thanksgiving when my brother couldn’t think of anything to be thankful for so he said “apples” and I thought that that was the most honest answer I’d ever heard.