Writing to Remember

 In 4th grade, we were told to purchase and decorate a “writer’s notebook,” so I got a little black moleskin journal and glued a headshot of my dad on the cover. 

I loved my little book, the very first in a long line. I filled it with star charts of imaginary universes, doodles of stupidly named characters, and blueprints of aerodynamically questionable flying cars. I sketched out my first stories in there, and every notebook I’ve had since (dozens and dozens of them) has been my primary place to process my thoughts and ideas. 

But I need my notebooks now in a way I never could have imagined. They are as much a part of me as my hands or certain lobes of my brain. I sustained a nasty concussion about five years ago, and my memory since has been…iffy. After college, without a routine to keep me grounded, I didn’t write anything down for almost a year. That whole period means nothing to me now. It’s just gone. 

It is terrifying to feel like you’re slipping away, smiling at stories about yourself you don’t remember, laughing at inside jokes you don’t get. But all I have to do is fish the correct brightly colored and sticker-adorned notebook out of the teetering stacks on my desk without causing an avalanche. Then I can flip to any page and see that on June 28th of this year, I took my meds, had three cups of jasmine tea, ate an everything bagel, showered twice, did yoga, texted my best friend, read Midnight Library by Matt Haig, did my daily Duolingo, paid rent, answered a bunch of emails I had been putting off, did some work (but not very much) and fed my cat. I can tell you exactly when I had my last haircut (last week, 3 a.m. with craft scissors), clipped my toenails (October 20th), or had a nightmare (October 22nd). I can piece my life together at the end of every week from my lists, notes, and reminders. It gives me a foundation upon which to rebuild. 

Memory is weird. If asked for a paperclip, I can tell you with 100% accuracy that there is one next to the orchid in the kitchen, a little to the left of the sugar jar. With the exception of that time last month when an entire 12-pack of toilet paper mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth after I KNOW I went to the market to buy some, I am keenly aware of my surroundings. 

I remember the things that matter to me: details about the people I care about, my partner’s favorite foods, and little things about the town my best friend grew up in. I remember exactly what my favorite professor’s garden looks like and the color I painted her fence. I remember what it felt like to scuff my knees on the wood chips under the swings in elementary school and what a sheep smells like. I remember road trips with my dad, driving across the Golden Gate Bridge, feeling like I was leaving everything that was slowly killing me behind for the very first time. Because so much is gone, what remains is so much more precious. 

I have excruciatingly clear memories of beautiful things I have never had, feelings I know exist but have never felt. I KNEW what it would feel like to fall in love years before I did because of a dream I had when I was 13. I was lost in a busy train station. I was scared and alone and wanted to blip out of existence until someone found me, and I knew everything would be okay. My dream of love had no face, name, or voice. It was just comfort, an overwhelming sense of safety, and being known. From that moment, I knew what I was looking for, and a couple of years ago, I found it. 

One of the hardest things about living after a brain injury has been scraping together what remains of my sense of self, gluing it all back together with only my notes to guide me. I don’t feel like the person I was before. I’m not the person I was before. She died. It is so easy to feel like a stranger in my own life, to feel like everything I have isn’t really mine. My old friends, my family, and even my writing is someone else’s. I’ve merely inherited them. It’s scary to return to a half-written novel and realize that my voice has changed beyond recognition. What am I supposed to do? Do I throw out my old work? Do I imitate a style that is no longer mine? I don’t know. I don’t know how to grieve for myself, especially when no one else seems to realize that I’m gone. 

I know that I’ve been healing. I am no longer the shell that waddled through my life for a year. But knowing what I’m not doesn’t make it any easier to identify who I am. That will take so much more time. But I am happy, and I am loved, and most importantly, I am loved for who I am now. I write differently, but I still write. And as long as I do, it might all be okay.