Memory interrupted

In October of 2016, I was not myself. I wasn’t doing any of the things I love to do, the things that make me happy. I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t taking photos. I couldn’t read a novel or watch a full-length movie from start to finish. Getting through one book chapter or 22-minute sitcom was impossible. I couldn’t keep track of the characters, the plot, or even what was happening from one moment to the next. As someone who normally consumes entire novels in one sitting, I felt like I might be going crazy.

I didn’t know it yet, but I was already deep in the thick, tangled morass of PTSD. My inability to focus and concentrate, even on simple pleasures, was one of the symptoms that worried me the most. I knew why it was happening. The crime that decimated life as I knew it had occurred just five months before and nothing had been normal or predictable since. Everything was uncertain and stressful and I had no clue when it was going to get better. I was desperate to lose myself in a story for a couple of hours, but I couldn’t.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to concentrate again and that thought was terrifying. How would I find and keep a job if I couldn’t focus? How would I make it through the trial and the stress it was sure to bring? How could I help Mr. C heal and prosper if I was unable to hold my brain together for even brief periods of time?

Compounding this very real worry, I couldn’t remember things. I mean like THINGS. A few months ago, I was visiting with my brother and his family. We were talking about movies and he mentioned a scene from a specific movie. I told him I hadn’t seen it. Oh my, the look on his face! Clearly, I’d said something weird. He said, “You saw it with us when we were up there for Christmas!” Doh!

Christmas of 2016 is pretty much a non-event in my brain. I remember keeping my nieces for a few days while my brother and sis-in-law took a much-needed kid-free holiday. My most vivid memory from that time period is when one of my nieces dropped the gallon of milk she was bringing in from the car and it went splat, exploding all over the outside (thank goodness outside!) of my front door and entry mat. Mr. C seriously lost his mind that anyone would be so careless with his precious milk. But that’s pretty much it, other than a couple of rather vague Christmas morning memories.

But that’s only the beginning. I forgot entire conversations a day after having them. Sometimes I even forgot having them. When I actually remembered talking to someone, I couldn’t always remember what we talked about. I made plans and then completely forgot about them hours later. Yet detailed memories from the days after the crime were excruciating in their clarity. They haunted me day and night. I couldn’t turn them off.

Normally, I’m the annoying person who remembers every word of an important or interesting conversation and can remind you of it twenty years later. As you might imagine, the disappearance of my memory freaked me the hell out. I adopted weird behaviors in order to cope. I became hyper-aware of the conversational clues of others, grasping for any hints they dropped that might be important. I made very general statements when talking to someone about something we’d done or discussed in the past so that no one would realize that I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. I started texting more than talking so that I could look back and see a record of what was discussed or planned. If I was losing my mind, I didn’t want anyone around me to notice. That would make them worry and I’d already given them plenty to worry about.

Anyway, back to October of 2016. There was a storm. I forced myself to go outside to snap a few pics of the fabulous tree behind our house. If the storm was as big as predicted, the leaves would blow away and I would lose my chance to capture them. I took some pictures, but the sky was too gray and the rain too dreary. I stood there for a moment, watching the tree blow in the wind and the rain plop down into glistening, little puddles in the grass. A gorgeous leaf was partially submerged near my feet. I liked the way the water played over the brightness of the leaf. I snapped two shots and went back inside.

At first, I was discouraged – none of the shots of the tree were even slightly interesting. The first leaf photo was out of focus. But when I opened the second photo, I discovered that the leaf and water combination was as beautiful as I’d hoped. And I had uncovered something else that was extraordinary and completely unexpected. The ripple of a rain drop had created a smiley face that only my camera could capture, at only that exact moment in time.

I laughed out loud.

I sat on a stool in my kitchen and stared at that photo for a long time. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, but this was the day I knew that everything was going to be ok.

It was also the day that I knew I needed to take action. I needed to dig myself out of the deep, dark hole that had become my life. I went outside that day, despite a desperate, urgent desire to stay inside where I was safe and numb. And because of it I uncovered a treasure. What else might I find if I got back out there and looked? What else might happen if I got back out there and lived? I’m not saying that I started doing everything right from that day forward. I still had a heck of a lot of ugliness and despair to slog through. But the seed of hope had taken root in my head.

That photo (below) is the greatest gift I’ve ever received. I had a 20×30 print made and hung it in my living room. It’s the first thing I see when I come downstairs every morning and the last thing I see before I leave the house. It’s easy to become immune to the things that surround us all the time – to not see the beauty or the humor or the love. Every day, I make a point to stop and look at that photo – to really see it. It reminds me of how far I’ve come. It also reminds me that treasure is hidden everywhere – we just have to open our eyes and our hearts – to put ourselves out there to find it.

It’s not easy to take those first steps after a trauma. I understand the fear and the sadness and the confusion and the anger. But with time and hard work, trauma symptoms do improve. My memory isn’t quite back to normal, but it’s getting close, and my ability to focus and concentrate are back and open for business.

My advice? Start small. Look for something – anything – that captures your attention and makes you remember who you want to be, even if only for a moment. Keep reminding yourself that you are worth the effort. Don’t give up.

You’ve probably seen this photo before. I posted it in Wind, water, and falling leaves. And if you’re one of my Facebook friends, you’ve definitely seen it this week and heard the condensed version of the backstory. I’m not trying to wear you all out, but I am trying to win the Weather Channel’s photo contest and need your help. I don’t need to win the popular vote, but I do need to attract the judges’ attention. You can vote once every 24 hours until September 7^th – please vote here. If you love my photo and story, please share this post with your friends and ask them to vote for it too. Thanks!