*********************************
I feel like I should reflect on my life. Maybe now is not the ideal time, im sixteen years old and I have not lived yet. I have not been to war, I have not killed another human being and I am not famous. But I have this feeling down in the pit of my stomach that if this story should be told now is the time. I feel like I have too many memories that if I don’t write them down they will get lost somewhere. So, this is where I am going to begin.
According to the Psychodynamic Approach in Psychology, and more specifically in Freud’s stages of learning, I am currently in the oral stage. The oral stage is what you experience in the first year of your life, you experience all pleasure through your mouth. As I relentlessly chew my nails and completely ruin pen lids with my teeth I am very much stuck in the oral stage of learning. According to the great psychologist Freud this is because of a trauma in the first year of life. Which in my case was not bonding enough with my Mum and refusing to breast feed, which well, when your baby is clearly something traumatic. I don’t remember being traumatised in the slightest, but why would I? I was a baby. When im waiting for the train, bus, whatever and there is a child in a pram, I often wonder if that baby will remember me. I honestly can’t say I know what my earliest memory was, but I just have this funny feeling that maybe I was someone’s first memory. I once sat in Pizza hut, best friend at my side and a baby staring opposite at us. I often think back to that baby, pizza smashed across it’s face, the gurgle of somewhat displeasure and joy and the constant staring. I think I will remember that baby for the rest of my life, and I think it will remember me too. I hate it when someone says, hey do you remember that? And you really don’t. I feel kind of empty and a little giddy at the same time. But if someone said, hey do you remember that pizza baby? I would say yes, yes I do.
About a month ago I started to remember things, a specific memory in general. I’m standing at a bus stop in the rain, my Nanna’s then young hand tightly clasped around my wrist. We don’t have an umbrella, I have no wellies. Yet we don’t seem to be that wet. We are opposite her house in Dovercourt and I hate it because I am stuck with my Nanna and I want to go back home to my Dad.
.