MY MENTAL BLOCKER: A MEMOIR

 MY MENTAL BLOCKER: A MEMOIR

By dzan

19 Jan 2024

 

The Gift of Photographic Memory

In the halcyon days of my education, I was blessed with a photographic memory. The ability to recall not just the content, but the exact location, lines, and paragraphs of the material I read was mine. Even the context in which the information was presented was etched in my mind. During intellectual exchanges with my peers, I found myself correcting their misinterpretations of the text, drawing upon my memory to reference the original material. Time and again, I was vindicated.

However, I was a nonconformist in my education.  Instead of excelling in my studies, I prefer to be a ‘mediocre’ over ‘exceptional’. 

But for a very long time, my memories of my past has been illusive and drastically deteriorating.

The Onset of Amnesia

Years into my professional life, I crossed paths with a stranger who seemed to know me intimately. After a week of engaging conversations, he posed a question that caught me off guard, “You don’t remember me, do you?” Without a hint of remorse, I confessed, “No”.

He then took me on a trip down memory lane, reminiscing about our secondary school days, our shared meals of Nasi Lemak, and our close-knit friendship. To my surprise, these memories were lost on me. This wasn’t an isolated incident. Several old school friends recounted tales of frequent visits to my home, yet these memories too, were absent from my recollection.

The Tale of My 12 Ex-Girlfriends

In an attempt to explain my “amnesia” to my children, they suggested that perhaps a “traumatic” event had led to the erasure of my memories. However, I distinctly remembered and shared with them that before marrying their mother, my beloved wife, I had been in relationships with 12 different women. I was even engaged once, but ultimately, I married my wife, who was neither my girlfriend nor my fiancé. My daughter, upon hearing this, rolled her eyes, stating that I was not “cool” enough to have had girlfriends.

As a Muslim, I did not partake in the typical physical boy-girl relationship despite having had 12 girlfriends. I needed to uphold my values as a Muslim.

 

A Facebook Message: A Memory Jogger

Recently, in Jan 2024, I received a Facebook message that read, “Hi there, do you by any chance know a person called Pxxxx Sari Rxxxi?”. The message was a few days old, and I hesitated before responding, “Yes. It was so long ago. Why? You met her recently?”

As it turned out, the sender was her niece or nephew. He shared that Sari had passed away in 2012 and that his mother had found my letters and gifts to Sari, whom I used to call.   

I mentioned that some 15 or 20 years ago, Sari did reach me over Facebook message telling me about her strokes of breast cancer, stage 3. She said was married, in UK with a son, and was on chemotherapy. 

At that moment, I remained unperturbed, gently assuring her that my heart bore no burdens of the past. My mind, too, was a tranquil sea, barely rippling with the faintest memories of our shared history. Our interaction was devoid of the customary courtesies and absolutions, as if they were mere spectres, fading into the ether of forgotten discourse.

All I could remember was that she was my 12th girlfriend. No details, no images of Sari came to mind.

Her nephew or niece sought my advice on what to do with the letters and gifts. To that, I responded, “Do whatever you want”.

 

Memories Rushing In

I am typically a sound sleeper, but on this particular night – 18^th Jan 2024, memories of Sari invaded my dreams.

Before drifting off to sleep, I had sent a Facebook message to her nephew saying: “Sari used to be my favourite person. But perhaps the feelings were not mutual. We have never met, nor spoke after we parted our ways.  I believe now, Allah SWT had different paths for me. I am happy with the people I love and care dearly. Alhamdullillah. Take care.”

 

Our Unfinished Story

Sari and I were both students at the same private school. Sari stood out among the handful of Malays. She was tall, attractive, confident, and immensely popular, always surrounded by boy or girl friends. Despite her popularity, I was timid, and shy, yet can be very friendly.  One thing is for sure, I never sought nor intended to get to know her.

One day, Sari and her friends approached me in class.  Suddenly, Sari spoke to me. I was taken aback and, in my shock, fled out of the classroom. I thought that was the end, but it was just the beginning.

 Sari, As I Remember

A few days later, my classmates decided to organise a trip to Malaysia. They asked if I could join and host them at my house in Mersing, Johor. Without giving much thought, I agreed.

The group consisted of two girls and six boys. We hired a few cars for the two-hour journey from Singapore to Mersing. Sari and her girl friend rode with me, while the rest in other cars.  That’s how we began to get to know each other better.

Just as my observation from afar, Sari was confident, intelligent, and liberal, unafraid to speak her mind. I admired these traits in a woman. When she expressed her hurt about the day I ran away from the classroom when she talked to me, I brushed it off, unapologetic.

Upon reaching Mersing, I mingled with everyone as if they were all my good friends and played the role of a good host.

Everyone noticed and knew that Sari and I liked each other, but everyone pretended as if it was nothing. We had a great time in Mersing, exploring the beach, picnicking, having a barbecue, and roaming around Mersing.

Like a Blossoming Cherry Tree

Post-trip, I anticipated a return to our previous dynamics would end whatever was there in Mersing. However, Sari and I found ourselves drawn closer. We spent countless afternoons and evenings together post-school, and she became a regular visitor at my home, we studied together, collaborated on school projects, and shared her dreams of studying abroad. I could only respond with a smile and well wishes.

She often said that she loved it that I never imposed my values onto her or be judgemental towards her.  And she enjoyed it when I accompanied or assisted her while she did the dishes.  She was quirky and full of puns.  Sometimes I don’t even know if I should get offended.  Often, she expressed that for a Malay I was very intelligent. And she never met Malays who were good-looking until she met me.  Mostly, I would respond by saying, "Those are not compliments".

She said hardly had Malay boyfriends.  Her exes were non-Malays. She also talked about the part-time modeling gigs that she enjoyed. She contemplated to do modeling seriously.  Only when she asked me about it, I asked her, “Why would you be spending time and money to pursue your higher education if modeling was her career choice? With the knowledge that you acquire why would you let others tell you how to dress, how to walk, and perhaps how to behave?”  A few months later she declared that she gave up modeling as she realised it was an insult to her intelligence.  She conceded that what I had said made a lot of sense.

We became favourites of each other’s, but we never verbalized our feelings, but I believed that when two people are attracted to each other, words are often unnecessary.

I visited her home occasionally, met her mother, and enjoyed our conversations. I’ve always been someone who can engage in meaningful conversations with my friends’ parents.

Sari used to frequent my house, spending time with me. After all, we seldom ventured out. She was never hesitant to enter my room, irrespective of whether my parents were present or not. She never waited for an invitation, from the first day.

In the heart of my traditional mother, a seed of worry was sown, yet she chose to place her trust in me. She would often remind me, with a voice as soft as a lullaby, that Sari was not just a name, but a cherished daughter to someone, and she deserved nothing less than respect and care.  I understood her queue.

There were times when our home was filled with the chatter of guests, and Sari, with an air of nonchalance, would retreat to the sanctuary of my room. This act, innocent as it was, would set the tongues of our guests wagging, their whispers echoing through the corridors.

But fortune smiled upon me, for my mother was a woman of steel, unswayed by the idle gossip that swirled around us. Her focus remained unwavering, her faith in me unshaken, a beacon of strength amidst the storm of whispers.

Sari often used to take her showers at my place, subsequently entering my room and requesting me to dry her hair with a brush. Those instances were the sole intimate moments we shared. Yes, these minor details, resonate in my memory now.

 

The Proposal

As days turned into weeks, months, and years, my fondness for Sari grew. I believed (assumed) she felt the same. But we never really talk about it. I just knew. So, I thought.

One day, I suggested, “Let’s apply for a flat together.” She was taken aback and retorted, “Are you crazy?” I felt embarrassed and rejected. I distanced myself from Sari for a few days, and perhaps we both did, without uttering a word about what happened.

A few months later, I knew I wanted to settle down. I informed my mother of my choice. She wasn’t thrilled about Sari, but she didn’t stop me.   I took it as her blessing of my choice.

However, I couldn’t get over the “rejection.” I assumed Sari had no interest in me and decided to move on.   It was a painful decision on my part. We hung out a few times though, which I assumed was just a casual friendship.

I met someone about 12 years my junior who liked me a lot. I didn’t dislike her, but I was comfortable with her. She was pretty but too submissive and naive. Ready to settle down, and so I proposed to her.

A few weeks later, I met Sari and told her about my engagement. She was furious and stormed off.   We met again a few days later and started talking about my engagement.

“Why not me?” she asked. “You rejected me,” I replied. She screamed and asked when? I reminded her of our conversation about applying for a flat together. She was livid. She berated me, “How did you propose to your fiancé? Why can’t you propose to me like you did to her? What kind of proposal did you make to me?”

I felt guilty, realizing my mistake. I apologized and withdrew.

Her words echoed in my mind for weeks and months. I asked my fiancé why she wanted to marry me. Her reasoning shocked me, and I knew she wasn’t the one I wanted to marry. I felt disjointed if I continued my relationship with her and married her.  But I was undecided just yet.

Meantime, memories of Sari tormented me, and I yearned for her.

One day, at a barbecue with my best friends, my friends discovered I was engaged. While the rest congratulated me, one of them asked me, “Do you love her?” It was a reality check.  I began questioning myself repeatedly.

Weeks passed, I felt tormented, and my yearning for Sari grew stronger. Her words kept playing in my head. Hence, I decided to break off my engagement.  I like to believe the breaking up was for Sari – despite uncertainty if she would ever accept me.  I did not feel guilty but doing justice instead for my fiancé.

 Together or Apart?

Sari and I began to see each other more frequently. I had yet to inform her about my broken engagement, but when I finally did, I was met with reprimand. However, we moved past that. By then, I assumed we understood each other and where we were heading.

Weeks and months passed. One day, I called her home. Her mother informed me that Sari was away, visiting her adoptive parents in Perak or somewhere else. When I asked when she would be back or if there was a number I could reach her at, I was met with silence. I called every week, but there was still no news.

A month later, her mother unveiled a truth that fragmented my heart. “I can no longer bear the burden of Sari’s secret. She’s in the UK, advancing her Honors Degree. She implored me to keep you in the dark,” she confessed. I was left in a state of desolation.

“Sari is not the one for you,” her mother added. “True, she has evolved for the better since your paths crossed, becoming more devout in her prayers and showing me, her mother, more reverence. But she is not your destined companion.”

Her words stirred a tempest within me. “How can you assert she is not right for me?” I retorted. “You are her mother. Why would you even harbor or voice such thoughts? Why doesn’t anyone inquire about what’s good for me? Why decide on my behalf? Isn’t this a matter between Sari and me? Even my own mother never presumes to make decisions for me.”

Her mother replied, “No. This is solely about her. Just her. She embarked on her UK journey without seeking my consent, her mother’s, let alone informing you.”

My world spun non-stop. But I couldn’t give up on her. “Yes, I love her,” I said.

 The Denial

My mother, with her keen eye, observed the change in my demeanor, the retreat into solitude, and my newfound propensity to seclude myself within the confines of my room.

I discovered the university where Sari was studying. I reached out to the institution and eventually succeeded in speaking with her over the phone. She confessed, “I chose to pursue my studies in the UK out of fear that you might not support my academic aspirations. You are my only Malay boyfriend. You’ve always been different and extremely good to me.  You never exploited me despite the numerous opportunities I presented.” Her words left me bewildered. I responded, “How and why could you entertain such thoughts, knowing my deep respect for education and my profound affection for you?

Then, she uttered the words that pierced my heart, “You are too good for me. I am ending our relationship.” I cried out in disbelief. I implored her. I begged her not to sever our ties. I screamed. I threw tantrums over the telephone. I questioned, “How can you end something that hasn’t even officially begun? I haven’t even had the chance to formally propose to you.  Take your time in UK and we talk after you come back, please!”

Yet, she remained resolute and ended the call. I was plunged into a sea of torment, shedding tears that flowed like a river, day after day, for weeks, perhaps even months and years. It felt as though my heart and lungs were being torn asunder. I descended into an abyss of emotional-amuk. I had a rampage in my heart. Throwing tantrums like a small spoilt child.  I casted blame upon her, but the brunt of the blame was directed at myself. I became withdrawn, my demeanour shifting to one of easy agitation toward those around me.  But I was still able to manage my composure in crowds.

My dear mother, who knew me so well, couldn’t stand to see me in such pain. She approached me, offering money for a flight to the UK to meet Sari and discuss our issues face-to-face, not just over the phone, she suggested.

Yet, deep within, I was aware of Sari’s pride, and her unyielding character. I knew she wouldn’t change her mind. And she did just that. So, I merely brooded in silence.

At work, everyone noticed. My bosses asked me to take a long leave, though it did not affect my work. But the bubbly and jovial person had left the office.  Everyone thought my depression was due to my breaking up with my fiancé.  I never told anybody what was burning inside me.

Thus, I chose to stay occupied, shedding tears in solitude, but mostly, I found solace in my prayers to Allah SWT, seeking a renewed heart. I made a solemn vow to find someone whom I could love, cherish, and care for even more than I did for Sari. It took me two long years to finally move past her.

I expunged Sari from my memory. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this act of forgetting also wiped away all my other memories. She had unknowingly become a barrier to my recollections.  My mental blocker.

The Road Not Taken

In an innocent inquiry, my children (so as I), unaware of the full spectrum of my past, once posed a question, “What if you hadn’t married mum?” My response was heartfelt, “Then I would have missed out on the profound love for the mother of my children and the joy of having such wonderful children like all of you. I cannot imagine all of you have different faces.  Your presence brings me joy and calmness every time. By Allah, I couldn’t be prouder or more grateful to be blessed with your mother and all of you. Alhamdulillah.”

I am eternally thankful to Allah SWT for bestowing upon me the capacity to love, cherish and care, and to be loved by those I hold dear. Subhanallah.

My Prayer

Now, all I have to offer are my prayers and my deeds as I patiently await to meet with my Creator, Allah SWT.

Oh Allah, bless the soul of the late Sari. Forgive her. Shower her with Your blessings and grant her your Jannah. Place her among the pious. Bless my parents, her parents, and all of us. Accept our good deeds. Guide us on the straight path. Amin. Insyaallah.

Oh Allah, bestow upon me, my generation, and all Muslims unwavering faith. And when our time comes, grant us a good end. Amen. Insyaallah.

My past is but a memory, its recollection holds no value to me now, dwelling and lamenting on it.  As I document this memoir, I am certain that everyone has experienced their share of trials and tribulations.

I have left my emotional baggage so long ago. The blockage in my mind has been now lifted.  Unblocked.  But I could no longer repossess the superpower of photographic memory. Yes,  Alhamdullillah.

/dzan

19 Jan 2024