They told me to write down my thoughts, my feelings, in hopes that it would jog my memory. So far, nothing. I have to wonder, though, why they keep using such an odd cliché. I keep picturing my memory as this over weight, hairy guy in a purple velour warmup suit with white pinstripes down the sides, getting ready for a jog but then tiring out and giving up, going back to the couch with a bowl of buttered popcorn to watch Oprah. That’s what I would do, but they say I have to try.
It’s not that I have forgotten everything, just selected things. Even after people tell me things, I forgot some of the things they tell me. Names are hard. Sometimes faces, too. A nurse that said she’s been by five times still looks like a stranger to me. I wonder when I can get out. Maybe by going home I’ll be able to remember things again. That’s not an original thought; the doctor tells me that every day when he comes in to check up on me. Maybe I should ask him when I can go home, because it seems like he keeps asking me, and the one thing I haven’t forgot is that he is the doctor, not me. I do remember my name, but it’s my maiden name, not my married name, they tell me. I told them I didn’t realize that I was married. They laughed. I didn’t know why that was funny so I didn’t laugh. I looked down at my hands, but there were no rings. They took them off when I was brought in for treatment and have them locked away. They said I can have my rings and other jewelry back when I’m ready to leave. I was hoping to get everything back before. Maybe my wedding ring would help with my memory, but I doubted it. I mostly have to rely on things these people tell me. The people. There were two types: one: the ones who work at the hospital and two: the ones who say they are family and friends. I have no choice but to believe them.
But then there are things that I just can’t forget. I wish I could. Like the look on my face, the dullness of my eyes-it’s all there, starting at me from the pretend mirror I try not to look into. I close my eyes and I see the circles that dig in beneath my eyes, the frown of my mouth, the lifelessness of my skin. I wonder what the hell is going on, but I never get an answer. I wonder if today is the day that I will feel normal, will act normal, actually be normal, but it is not. The day never comes. The day, I believe, does not exist. I’m wasting my breath, wasting my mind if I think it will change. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever will. Why delude myself into something I know will never happen. Any glimmer of hope has been snuffed years ago, more directly, the moment I was born. Sometimes I think that I was bred for unhappiness, that aliens have sent me here to study the unimaginable properties of sadness. It is, after all, the only emotion with which I have an intimate relationship. The others need not apply. There is no room in my heart for happiness, it is expelled immediately. But I do this to myself, don’t I? Without realizing it, without recognizing it. Butted heads with another brick wall that I forget is there, the shame is all mine. The blame is all mine, the fault is all mine. I know this and have accepted it. Yet, no one but me believes me…
