I had the best evening on Wednesday, Tucker and I met up at our favorite Middle Eastern place for dinner. It was perfect. Great food, delightful give and take, and most importantly, that easy, cozy, completely free feeling you get with someone who’s known you forever, who knows all your ins and outs.

I am told that in two days I will begin to lose my memory of this night. You see, Friday morning I’m starting treatment with electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) for severe, drug-resistant, bipolar depression. The further I continue with treatment, the fainter and more foreign the memory will become, until I will be capable of reading my own words about it and not recognizing a single part of them as familiar. This is what I am told.

That dinner got me thinking, what is a memory worth? My life has consisted of far more bad experiences lately than good, so shouldn’t the former outweigh the latter? How many terrible memories equal a single perfect one?

I’ve been turning this problem over and over again in my head, and no matter how I try, I can’t get the equals sign in the right place in the equation. What, indeed, is one single memory worth? Is it worth the past four years I have spent in deep depression? How about adding on an additional four like those that I have just struggled through?

The answer seems obvious. But the scales continue to tip up and down, never quite finding equilibrium.

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