Am I sick?

How forgetful would I have to be before I officially have a disability?

Anyone who knows me (and a few who don’t) knows that I have a terrible memory. Names, faces, places, dates, words … there is no fragment of information in the universe so interesting, important or oft-repeated that my superhuman powers of forgetfulness are incapable of dematerialising it into a fine mush of where-was-I-ness.

Artist’s impression.

Each and every one of my friends, relatives and colleagues has had to suffer the indignity of watching me forget their birthdays, my appointments with them, even who they are and how I know them and what they do for a living.

In fact, I’m not sure whether I’ve written about this on this blog before. But now I’m in too deep, so I’m going to keep going.

Once I called up a friend because I was in Sydney and wanted to see if he was interested in having lunch with me. He informed me that he lived in Melbourne, and had actually never been to Sydney.

Today I lost my wallet, and it took me all day to find it because I kept forgetting what I was looking for.

One time I found myself walking down an unfamiliar street, barefoot, with no idea where I was going or where I’d come from or how I came all this way without shoes. I know this sounds made up. It’s not.

Ever see “Memento”? I think I have, but I’m not sure.

Friedrich Nietzsche once said “Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders.” I think he should try it. When you live with no memory, you still feel terrible about your mistakes - you’re just not sure what they are.

So how come what I have isn’t classified as a mental illness? Amnesia is, but that requires physical or psychological trauma, and I haven’t had any. (That I remember.) Dementia is, but that refers to gradual brain damage, and I’ve always been this way. (I think.)

There are autistics who function far better than me, and they are given medical help. There are sufferers of ADHD who can focus longer than I can, and they’re prescribed drugs to ease the symptoms. How come I’m not? Where’s the cure for being me?

I like writing. It’s like thinking, only I don’t get lost, because all I have to do is look back.

Trouble is, sometimes I forget where I was headed. And then I have no choice but to finish up.



MITIFOTIT:
Most Interesting Thing I Found On The Internet Today

Courtesy of pbfcomics.com: