Amnesia. I’m a faker, but I’m me.

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?
Yes.

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.

Ronovan

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.

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Share it, don’t wear it.

First of all, THIS IS NOT A SELF SEEKING PITY POST! I am simply sharing as therapy here. I share to let others see that we are all the same and have the same things happen or similar things happen. Even the positive people of the world have screwed up lives at times. So PLEASE do not take this as a pity post.

Seeing that tomorrow is my day for a positive post I am getting myself ready for it now. The past few days have been those days where I want to simply sleep all day.

  • Fevers have been occurring in the house.
  • Breakfasts have been reappearing with sudden force.
  • Migraines have been off the chart.
  • Pressures have run rampant.

I’ve been on the verge of:

  • Giving up dreams.
  • Giving up friendships.
  • Even giving up a book I wrote and telling the co-author it’s theirs to do with as they wished.

A lot of people look at me and think, just rest. “You do too much.” “It’ll be okay.” “You’re under stress.” But they forget a few things about me. Old Ronovan isn’t all okay up there in the noggin.

It’s been a while since I’ve been on the cusp of debilitating depression. Depressed? Yes. Hide in my room and not come out for any reason whatsoever? No. I think it’s been maybe a month and a half or so.

Recently I’ve lost memories of friends. I get emails from them and have to wing it. I don’t want people to get upset with me, because I hope things will come back. I read back through previous emails from them to get an idea of things and then come up with a decent reply.

You know, the bad part is there are people I wish at times would just disappear that don’t. Do you have people like that?

What people don’t get is I do so much in order to keep out of depression. But then I get in to so much and border on letting people down and then the depression begins.

So why am I saying all of this while wanting to get ready for a positive day of posts? You gotta get it out of your system.

Share it, don’t wear it.

Know what I mean? You have those friends like that? They like to wear their problems and not get rid of them. It’s like they are so happy to be down. I share and get it over with. blah

It’s difficult to be a friend of mine in the sense of like a outside of blog friend. Like in email and chat friend. You don’t know if I am going to be normal one moment and completely not handle situations properly the next. There is like a wire inside my mind that overheats and as it does it doesn’t want to work right.

You know like on the dryer in your house. Sometimes a part will heat up and it will actually just get hotter and hotter. That’s my brain. I can feel it at times doing that. But it feels more like an icepick scratching and scraping away at a spot, trying to make its way deeper inside my brain.

That’s when I enter the, “I’m sorry” zone. I apologize for everything and then I disappear. I’m not gone for good, but I need to shut down and try to patch things back up and cool the brain down.

I hope my friends are reading this so they will understand me better. If not? I guess I will keep going through the cycle. You do what you have to do, right?

See you all tomorrow for Be Wonderful on Wednesday. I’ve got the bad out and can now go for the good. You can even look at this as positive. I do. I shared it, I didn’t wear it. And I’m not hiding.

Oh, a cool thing today. My son is in the fourth grade and recently they took a reading test to see their level of reading. He sort of blew it off not realizing what it was for. His level came out to be half way through the 8th Grade and he was second highest in his grade. He so needs to learn each test is a test no matter what it is. Geesh. Imagine what he might have done. Anyone surprised he’s an advanced reader?

Remember to find me and follow me at @RonovanWrites, on Google+, and on Facebook.

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#1000Speak Hello, nice to meet you . . . again.

1000 Voices Speak for Compassion.1000 voices speak for compassion

As I write this it’s the 19th and something nagged at me the 20th was a date I should know. I logged on to facebook and saw a 1000 Voices for Compassion update. It’s a group for bloggers that I think the name of speaks for itself. Now here I am writing. Good thing I joined the group at some point. Not sure when, but I did.

People forget all the time. People instantly think of Alzheimer’s patients when you start talking about memory problems. We’ve learned to have compassion for them.

But there are other reasons people forget. You have accidents that result in concussions, brain damage, and that can be a problem.

Have you ever wondered about people with amnesia? Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be an adult and not know 40 years worth of memories, people, history? Have you ever wondered how to deal with people like that? Probably not.

Let’s play pretend.

You look completely healthy. Actually you look healthier than before your accident. People look at you and have no clue anything is wrong. You might have to ask one of the simplest things you should know and people will think you are joking.

The responses range from a laugh and answer, to a curse and walking off. All you want to know is where the cooking oil is or which aisle the peanut butter is on.

Imagine if you will, walking in to a store and each time it is a brand new store, no matter how many times you walk in to the store. As far as you know have never been in that store.

Okay, let’s change that. Let’s say you wake up and you don’t know where you are. You look beside you and see a notebook that is opened to a page that says ‘Read Me’. Reading you now know your name, where you are, what is wrong with you, and how to find the restroom in the house because there is a hand drawn map on one of the pages you are told to read.

Imagine that is you every morning because not only do you have amnesia but you have short term memory problems as well.

Then you have to deal with people being mean to you. You are nice to everyone. You even cover your being afraid by joking with the cashier while the 70 year-old woman who drives you places is paying for the groceries.

Now imagine people you know, who talk to you each day, wanting you to be the exact person you were before. But you can’t. You don’t know how you became the person you were before. You want to be that person for those people and you search and search and you try to remember but the keys can’t be found.

Imagine the lack of understanding you have to deal with, even when told by the people they understand. Yes, you understand how the other people are frustrated because you can’t be the same. But what can you do about it? Can you make yourself remember and be the same? I guess that’s where the compassion comes in. Imagine the guilt you would have for not remembering. Imagine how you would see these people sad and looking at you to make things better and can’t. Imagine how the insides of you, the amnesiac are ripped apart each time that look is given, that word is said. Imagine how difficult it is for you to even face those situations that will rip them apart. Imagine the depression you would go through. Imagine how you would want it all to end.

All the things of your life that made you who you were and be the way you were and love the way you did have been forgotten—no, they have been taken away. What have they been replaced with? Opportunities for being made to feel like you are stupid and opportunities for guilt because you aren’t ABLE to act as you once did even if you do feel the same way.

Amnesiacs are a rare thing. They look healthy. They look normal. They are great actors. But they can’t do some of the simplest things due to no fault of their own. How many do you know?

Hello, my name is Ronovan. It says so on my notebook on my bed. Nice to meet you . . . again.

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Not Quick Enough (A Poem of Tragedy Explained)

I hear your voicepoetry loss

Two words

They hammer at the wall

Of my mind’s death

Heaven sent

Or heart found

I am pulled from the darkness

I breathe

I grieve

I mourn

I want the death again

Why this torture for me

Why the agony of this loss

Why so here and so not

Why

Days of pleading prevail

Please, God bring my ease

Please, God bring me release

Please, God break my mind again

Please, God

Knowing but still nothing

Two words

Freeing me from death

Condemning me to worse

Why were you taken

Why

Where is the never ending joy

Where is my peace

Why does my heart need ache

Why every day

Free me from this tearing of my soul

I pray for an end

Not quick enough

 

@RonovanWrites

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The story of a poem. Think of a man who is in the hospital and unconscious. He hears a voice calling to him, he sees a face. He sees a little girl’s face. He opens his eyes to a place he doesn’t know, with a broken mind. The little girl isn’t there. Where is she? The little girl was never born. She called out to the man. It wasn’t his turn. She used what she could to tell him it just wasn’t his time yet.

Flash forward and the man remembers about the little girl. He remembers who the little girl is. He wants it to be his time. But his time is not quick enough. He wants the memory to go away. But it won’t go away quick enough.

I have seen comments to this poem and I have even seen poems written as  a response in which I am tagged in. Thank you for the thoughts and the words, but the suppositions are nowhere near the mark. This is one that cannot recover, cannot be brought back, cannot be made to have a better day. If  you pray, pray I forget that I once gain forget the memories that came to me that inspired this poem. Please do so.

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Free Me To Death-A Haiku

haiku-ronovan-writes

Two words created to inspire creativity. For some it pulls out of them a positive and uplifting experience as they tap into either a fun and joyful memory or moment. For others it may be the complete opposite. That is the magic of words. You never know for certain what will be brought to the mind, even to the mind of the one creating the words. Or perhaps for some there is no surprise where this lost mind travels.

haiku poetry

I hear you calling,

Forcing my lost mind to break,

You free me to death.

much-respect-ronovan

@RonovanWrites

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