Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Would you re-live your worst relationship even if you knew how things would work out?

Tough question. I'm not keen on re-living pain; once is enough. But what about the happy memories, the ones that are kind of fun to remember? What about your travels, your funny and awkward moments, the people you met? Most of all, what about everything you learned about yourself and other people?

In my closet, I have no fewer than three shoeboxes (I'd have to dig them all out to count for sure). Each shoebox contains a relationship. Inside each box, I have notes, photos, receipts, souvenirs, mementos, and outright junk imbued with meaning and memories from each girl who shared time with me. I keep stuff.

I know lots of people who wouldn't think of keeping stuff. They throw out every reminder when they break up with someone. For some, discarding everything of significance is part of healing, but for me that seems like cheating.

You learn to live with your baggage; you don't just forget you had any.

Those capable of the "emotional purge" might seem heartless, too. If we were never all that attached to someone, then throwing out the reminders isn't too difficult. For me, I can't bring myself to throw out something that, at one point, meant so much. Somewhere deep down, these things, this stuff, still has significance. I'm not saying I feel the same way I once did; I don't. I'm saying these things still matter even though everything has changed. I can't stop speaking in abstracts. I'm very sorry.

For me, some days, I miss those girls. I miss their positive qualities (I don't just mean their unique hotness, brainy-ness, whatever). I don't miss these people so much that I'm willing to wreck the life I have now, because now is best of all. I don't miss their flaws, their things that were impossible to live with or understand. I don't miss their Gordian knot logic. I don't miss who I was at the time.

But some days, I do miss talking to them. In most cases, I hope they're doing well. In a few rare cases, I'm still friends with them. We don't hang out much, but we get along fine now.

I know a few people, including one particular ex-girlfriend, who would never allow my shoeboxes in the house. "Isn't it weird to keep mementos from an ex — more than one ex? What does that say about your level of commitment to the present relationship?"

Nothing. No, really. Nothing.

What does the present have to do with the contents of a shoebox, tucked away in a closet, containing the detritus and effluvia of dead relationships? The present is not relevant, except that I had to live out the contents of each shoebox, each photo album, each of those old e-mails and letters, in order to find my way here. That's all.

I like keeping a map of how I got here, and I like looking at the map every now and then. I need to remember how long and how far I traveled. Most of the time, I don't need to see the breadcrumb trail. If I look once every couple of years, I'm fine. But I need to remember how I used to be in order to be how I am now. If a shoebox rarely opened really impacts a relationship that much, then you are in a shitty relationship and you need to find someone who understands you better.

"Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?" Joel Barish asks. He's a glum introvert, awkward and lonely.

That was me. I had this crushing, painful fear of being alone for my entire life. I'd lie awake nights, wondering what the next girl would look like, or what her name would be, and how her voice would sound.

I'd meet a girl, maybe on a bus, maybe on a plane, maybe at work or in class, didn't matter, and she'd be polite to me but nothing more.

I'd take that as so much more.

I'd go home, obsessing about her, whoever, and sometimes I'd even get a number and go home and immediately call her. Or I'd go out of my way to see her again. I'd ride the bus again, or walk down the same hallway at the same time.

Every single time I did this, I'd never see the girl again.

I had pipe dreams of missing out on "The One." I'd get depressed. I missed my chance. I missed everything. I made everybody around me miserable. Some days, daylight to dark and beyond, I was thinking about the same girl. Waste of time.

Sometimes, I'd meet a girl differently. She'd sit down next to me in a class and stay there the whole time. She'd work with me, and I'd see her all the time. We'd meet at a party and talk for hours. Something would click. We'd go out, sparks would fly, and next thing I knew, I was in a relationship. And the next thing I knew, the relationship was in a shoebox.

"Technically speaking, the procedure is brain damage," Dr. Howard Mierzwiak says.

I don't need the brain damage. I don't want to forget my ex-girlfriends. I'm thankful for every single one — those who got away, those whose hearts I broke, and those who were just psychotic, baby-crazy harpies who wanted to eat my soul. All they did was save me.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it," wrote George Santayana in 1905. Charlie Kaufman's characters don't seem to mind, but I'd hate to forget.