Monday, July 10, 2017

Recovery #2

Recovery is going well.

I started playing the Viola.

I started writing.

Physio still isn't allowing me to draw. probably won't start learning how to draw again until December.

Brain scans have been delayed until august.

Have a meeting on Thursday to determine the extent of the mental damage.

and here's a short I wrote, forgive the terrible editing and the run on sentences, but writing is fun, and I guess I'll post my first work here.

Memory Loss.

Let me tell you something about memory loss. It's not glamorous, it's not something to be idalized. Amnesia itself is a cruel bitch at best.

It's not so bad for you as it is for those around you.

Imagine, if you will, a spinning record, skipping over the same section of audio. skip-skip-skip, unaware of itself but still spinning.

To you? An interesting thought appears, or a thought to add into a conversation, a new song you've heard to share.

To those around you?  You've said it before, three, four, five times, in fact.

This happens so much so that it's apparent on the faces of those around you, friends, family, loved ones, strained smiles that never quite reach the eyes, the faint look of impatience giving way to disdain.

You look back in your mind, and there's nothing there, nothing but a void where there should be something, some form of happiness, sadness, even hate or despair, but there's nothing, no recollection.

Each memory comes from someone or somewhere else.  Shattered pieces of thought collected from journals, visual clues, it's all there, yes, it has to be, but there's something else, something missing, something vital. 

There are no outward signs, of course not, why would there be? There's only the empty recollection. A constant, blackout static where memory should be and only that, Indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.

Here's the bitch. Recovery from such a thing isn't a linear path. You take two steps forward and then leap way the fuck back in a few days. An erratic pattern of unmeasurable imposed ignorance.


"What's written in that journal? It has yesterdays date on it, is that my handwriting? What happened yesterday?"


"What did I do this week? I didn't write anything down, though there are chat logs existing that prove I must have been doing something, but what?"


"You've said this before."


"We know."


"Yeah, you've mentioned."


Let me tell you something about memory loss...  

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