“Everything not saved will be lost.”
I moved out of my hometown with my newly-married partner in 2014. My first big jump into independence (aside from bills, rent, etc.) was acquiring Super Nintendo-era video games, and all the Nintendo 64 games I remember from the past but didn’t own. And I was not the kind of person to simply collect and hold onto them, no, I wanted to play these games. No more emulators and ROMs for me, I wanted to be legit! As I played those older games, compared to the newer titles I was accustomed to, I had a bad habit come up: I’d get frustrated, shut the game off, and descend into mad cackling as I realized I hadn’t saved, thus losing…let’s say, enough progress to warrant cackling. I improved my habits in time, getting more aware of save states and cautious play, both in those older titles and more current games.
Time passed. We moved again in 2015. About a year later, I decided, on a whim, that cross stitching was an art I could feasibly do. So, in true “new hobby” form, I went hard. I did a couple practice projects for myself, but largely devoted the craft to 2016’s holiday gifts; family and friends got a mix of different projects. It felt genuine, and was a fun change of pace when my partner was using the TV and didn’t want to play games with me.
As I was making these pieces for others, I realized that I didn’t have anything of substance for myself. A fun little gender-neutral sign for the bathroom, a warning to not complain while I’m cooking…funny pieces. But I wanted something with substance, but that still reflected me, my philosophy, and wasn’t made primarily to elicit a chuckle.
“Everything not saved will be lost.”
I was playing a game that is since lost to memory, but in a fit of my previously-established hubris, I remembered a Nintendo Quit Screen message, quoted in the front of a book. Maybe it was Ready Player One. But the quote suddenly jumped to the forefront of my mind: “Everything not saved will be lost.” Before I had even fully unpacked what that meant to me, I threw open my laptop and started up a cross stitch template: pixel lettering, and a low-resolution Nintendo Entertainment System. I was adamant that the power light be a bright red, signifying the system was still on. I knew, objectively, this was just threads overlapping one another to make an image. I didn’t care. It was simple, but it resonated with me. I wondered if this was how artists felt when they got into a flow. I got to work soon after.
When we had returned from the holidays, I had custom-sized frame waiting for me to place my mantra into. The finished product was small, hardly five-by-seven inches, but it held a place of honor by our bedroom door. I would see it daily, glancing over from our couch into the bedroom, catching my eye as I marveled at our games and movies shelved nearby, and every night before I went to bed. It took months, longer than I’d care to admit, but eventually, the words started to ring differently to me.
“Everything not saved would be lost.”
I lost track of a great many people in my life up to that point, friends and family alike. Some, the passing of time simply created rifts between us. Others, I lost because I didn’t think I had a choice but to lose them, even though it devastated them and me. But one day, all of those losses, though individually small, hit me all at once. So I started reaching out to so many people, from college, from high school, in my family. I didn’t want to lose them, and I could feel that distance I had unwittingly created between us. I wanted to save what I built with them, so long ago.
Facebook messages went out first. “Hey, sorry it’s been x-number of years, but I’m thinking of you and was wondering if you’d like to write letters?” “Hey, sorry I haven’t called a lot, but I’m actually really good at writing letters! Do you want to start writing to each other?” “Hey, I know it’s been a while, I just wanted to let you know I miss you, but would love to keep in touch.” “Hey.” “Hey.” “Hey.” I got more responses than I did silence. The silence hurt, especially when I could see the recipient read the message. But I made the divide initially, I can’t blame others for moving on. Even if I couldn’t save everything I remembered, I wasn’t going to lose everything.
Letters started going out. I started reconnecting with people. My partner and I discussed divorce. As I came to full grips with my own sexual identity (or lack thereof. Asexual problems-but-not-problems) and our career prospects, we started to drift apart. Things were ugly at first, from both of us. Shouting. Crying. Begging. But every day, I still saw my own advice to myself, hanging up outside the bedroom. My partner was my best friend. I didn’t want to lose that because of the stigma of divorce. I fought to preserve it. I got them to see where I was coming from, what I wanted to hold onto, even though the divorce process was hard for both of us. We both came from divorced parents, or had family who’d divorced, during our lifetimes. It was not great. We wanted to do better. So we fought to hold onto our bond, even if we weren’t tied together in matrimony. We fought to save it. “Everything not saved would be lost.”
I was scared to reach out to people once closest to me, given the nature of those splits. But I wanted to. One day, as we were cleaning the apartment, I glanced at my mantra, and asked my partner if I should reach out to those people, so hurt by how I ended things initially. My partner gave me the encouragement, the blessing, to reach out to them. I had already lost these people once before. I couldn’t fathom saving what I once had with them, but I wanted to say that I tried.
I was shocked to receive replies back. One of them, a peer of mine, a once-close friend was honest with me: they couldn’t forgive me, probably for the rest of our lives. I tried to understand. It hurt, but I acknowledged what they’d said and left things be. The other, a mentor, a cherished friend, was confused. Hurt. I was opening old wounds. I once told her that I wouldn’t be contacting her again, cutting all communication, breaking her more than I could fathom. But she still allowed me in, spoke with me honestly. We talked in long swathes of typed conversation, familiar conversation. We’d go weeks, sometimes months without talking again, largely due to tech issues, sometimes just not having anything to say. And one of us would pop back in, and we would pick up again where we left off. She’d write letters on occasion. She told me in college that she hated writing letters, but she’d make an exception for me. Something in my heart pinged when I realized I was still that exception. Maybe I didn’t save what I had before. Maybe I lost what I had before. But I didn’t, and I don’t, want to lose what I have now. “Everything not saved would be lost.”
Time passed. I was let go from my full-time position in 2018, and went to live with a friend in the city until I could find something new. I was graciously given the side room in a ground-level apartment. I could fit my bed, towers of milk-crated items, and my bedside cabinet, filled with photos I didn’t have a box for. On top of those photos always sat my mantra. It didn’t hang on the wall, but I made a point to open that drawer and look inside. It guided my job interviews, both full-time and part-time, leading to follow-ups and wild shots in the dark for positions I was (on paper, at least) not qualified for. But I still went for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Everything not saved would be lost.”
It has been two-and-a-half years since I accepted my most recent full-time position. In that time, I have maintained letters and communication with more people than I could have hoped. Got into the habit of sending birthday cards. Cooked and shared meals with friends, only to tear them asunder during ensuing board games. Stoked the flames of faltering friendships. Strengthened bonds with my best friend, lovingly referred to as “my ex.” Even as a global pandemic raged on, I have found new ways to engage with those I love. New ways to enjoy the things I enjoy. I built the habit of preserving what I cared about. I knew what would happen if I didn’t save that which I cared about. I saved what I didn’t want to lose.
Nine days ago, I was playing my umpteenth run in Hades. My job was blessedly peaceful. My ex sent me a job posting for writing for an online publication, equating it to game writing. I was humbled, but also didn’t have any writing experience to speak of. They reminded me of this sprawling, yet-unfinished, project on game mechanics and storytelling in video games I did during undergrad. I actually started to think about things. I died for the umpteenth time in Hades.
I felt drained from my job, partly because of how the COVID-19 crisis impacted it, but partly just because of my job. I had spent so much time and effort to save what I was scared of losing, but I didn’t find the same joy in those rewards. Passion in my work has been waning for months and months, and that apathy was dripping into the rest of my life. I was scared to lose everything I tried so hard to save, and lose the joy that it brought me.
At some point in this crisis, I looked behind me. I had more shelves, more art, more cross stitches of my own creation making a grid out of my walls. Yet, in a place of honor, hung there when I first moved in, hung my mantra. Visible when I walk out of my room every morning, when I go to the kitchen to prepare meals, or leave the apartment, there it hung. For as much as I had strived to save everything around me, to preserve my bonds, to create new bonds, I felt myself fading, much as I had tried to ignore it. “Everything not saved would be lost.”
For the past nine days, up to and through the holidays (thanks to work and pandemics for keeping me at home), I’ve been looking into what it means to write about games. I’ve tried to critically analyze the games I played, more than I ever have before. I’ve come up with essay ideas about the impact games have had on me, recently and way in the past. I’ve dabbled with the ideas of sharing writing about cooking, crafting, other things I’m passionate about, even if I’m not great at them! Writing. Something that I was so passionate about years ago, had largely faded. And as I walk into the kitchen for a snack one day, the red light on an NES made of thread stops me, just for a moment. I don’t want to lose myself. I’m want to save myself, and save the joy that I’ve found in everything, compound the joy in the things I love.
“Everything not saved will be lost.”
So I choose to save. Even if it means backtracking into old projects to find my way again. Even if my brain makes it hard to remember that I have skills and strengths outside of what my job deems necessary or important. Even if it means still getting frustrated, and descending into fits of cackling when things get overwhelming. Even if it’s like trying to start over.
I will press forward, I will grow, I will advance, and I will save this feeling of happiness and fulfillment. “Everything not saved will be lost.” And I will try to save all that I can.
