Today I need to speak about something. Amnesia. I”m a faker. You read my blog and all I say. You think how I write everything and link things together, how I know so much about blogging and my life.
I’m a faker.
I study, and have routines.
People think of me as being well. How Ronovan is not sick any longer.
I am a master faker.
What you read in this blog are the words of a man who repeats his life daily. I eat the same meals daily. I have medicines laid out in small cups with time labels with them as a reminder when to take them daily.
Then the 70 year old mother in-law must remind to take them.
People have read some of my recent series on comic books with memories I have and don’t realize those are memories I have been told only hours earlier. Fortunately memories having been shared previously with other people in my life, even my 10 year old son. Apparently I talked with him a great deal about comic books, or else he listened well.
But I’m a faker.
I went to my parents this past Saturday. I know this. I don’t remember what happened.
Amnesia and short term memory problems are not fun. Add to that Fibromyalgia and Fibro fog. Think of having blank spots of decades. Think of not having memories to share of experiences. Think of having people who obviously care but you no longer know them.
Think of the stress on the mind and body as one tries to remember and can’t and people don’t understand. Think of wanting to retreat into a world that only you exist in and be alone forever.
I’m a faker.
I am selfish.
My focus has become me, when apparently it once was everyone else. I leave the house once every two months or so. I walk out the door perhaps four. I look at my cat Spunky through the door as the woman I call Grandma feeds him and his family and he loves on her.
I have become afraid of any illness. I don’t want to return to the hospital.
I write books. I know this because I am reminded of it. It is a daily part of what I do. Routine. I have a writing partnership. I enjoy writing, it allows me to create worlds and people and not worry about reality or lost realities.
I don’t have to worry about disappointing, hurting or causing people to hate me because of my not remembering. Imagine having people in your life, nice people, but people who make your brain feel as though it were being compressed and about to pop at the same time.
Now combine that with the guilt of knowing it must be your fault. Then the physical ill that occurs. The mass confusion that begins and creates these storms of what to do, what to do. Now you cannot sleep but two or three hours a day. Eating is something that you think you did. You realize that noise in your stomach must mean you are hungry.
Imagine all of the storms together and for a moment you wonder what hungry is. You know what it is but for a moment you forget.
You make a decision to try and help yourself be well, to be at the least a little better, to stop the confusion storms and pains. The migraine spikes and sleeplessness might end. Then, you are . . .
What are you?
You spent days and days agonizing over decisions.
People don’t understand memory problems. It is an almost surreal thing. I don’t understand it and I live it. At least I think i do. My world is one being formed anew and quite often it seems built on loss.
I never intend to cause problems, pain, disappointments, heartbreak, heartache. However, it seems as though when I am honest I am a disaster creator. I feel hated at times. People don’t understand that I just don’t know.
And they don’t understand that I understand how they just don’t know how I don’t know any longer. Is it easy for me to tell people, “I don’t know you”? To finally come out and try to worry about me?
I’m sitting here now after having done that and now feeling a need to relieve myself of the breakfast I had to take with my first cup of medicines for the day, yes, a cup of pills. I can’t lose them. If I get sick, the pills are gone.
I’m stressing to the max, as some might say. Do I let guilt of something I don’t know force me to lie? Or do I keep trying to be healthy and try to mend?
You see, I try to be an encourager to a lot of people. It’s not something I do on purpose, but I share and it just has happened. Sure, I love it. It’s part of my make up. I guess my DNA or something. Now I am a disappointer, a devastator, a person that hates, a person that is a liar.
Yes, I have been called some of those things today. I understand it. After sharing this I will likely turn off and lie here in bed hoping I feel up to going to my son’s baseball game, his 11th game ever, and I’ve only been able to attend one. I ended up in the hospital the last time. Precautions have had to be made. Now, I’m not even sure I will be able to go.
Do I blame anyone?
I blame me. I’m the one with amnesia. I’m the one that loses what people don’t understand. I’m the one that causes the pain. I’m the one that can’t explain because I don’t have the words at times. Yeah, that’s part of it all too, I don’t have the words. For a writer, not knowing words makes for some boring writing. The thesaurus is my friend. I use it and put in the word that is almost what I know I am looking for.
I don’t hate. I don’t lie. I don’t have the energy or time left in my life to do either. What am I?
I am me.
Whatever that me is today, that’s who I am.
This has not been a sympathy piece. It has been a blogging piece, old school style. A dear diary style of post. Something I had to get out and put down.