I Forgot How to Forget
For most of my life, I’ve been blessed — or cursed, depending on how you look at it — with an ironclad memory. My earliest recollection? A chilly November day when I was three, running across the slick tile floor of the kitchen only to crash spectacularly into the edge of the table. I remember the loud crack, the dull shock of the impact, and my mother rushing over with a panicked look on her face, yelling, “I told you not to run!” as if that would somehow reverse the welt forming on my forehead.
That moment stuck with me. The way my body launched into the air. The noise, almost cartoonish. The way my vision had blurred for a second. I remember everything.
So, it was all the more jarring when, years later, after my TBI, my mind began slipping through the cracks. At first, it felt like losing my keys. Frustrating, but solvable. You search long enough, and you’ll find them under a jacket or between couch cushions. But no amount of searching brought back the names, faces, or reasons I had entered rooms. Worse, there were memories — whole parts of my life — that I hadn’t even realized had disappeared until someone else mentioned them. And by then, it was too late.
I’d like to say my injury came from something dramatic — some heroic act, like chasing down a mugger or jumping out of a burning building. In reality, I tripped over a pile of laundry on my…
