The Mind of a Forgetful

We've all been there at some point in our lives: you walk into the kitchen to get something out of the refrigerator, open the door, and can't remember what you went looking for in the first place. Imagine things like this happening repeatedly on a daily basis. That is my forever problem, and for the life of me, I cannot get used to it.

It starts with having what should be an emotional or memorable dream. I wake with strong feelings about whatever the dream was, but when I go to recollect any specific details, they are just out of reach. That feeling of forgetfulness follows me throughout the day. Maybe it's normal for most people to not be able to remember their dreams? Maybe I'm not as forgetful as I think I am. But then the rest of my day begins, and I find myself forgetting things that I feel like I should be able to remember.

When I was working, I'd go to look for something important like my badge or my jacket and somehow never actually remember to grab it before heading out the door. I'd get to work and a coworker might ask me about something that happened the day before. Honestly, I rarely remembered what happened on each shift by the end of the day, let alone the next day or a week later.

Even simple conversations could disappear from my memory. I could ask my now ex-husband the same question several times throughout the day, such as what he wanted for dinner, and his response simply wouldn't stick. Any time I made plans or had an appointment, I had to put it in my phone calendar with plenty of reminders. This also helped me look back when I couldn't remember on which day I had done something.

The small, daily stuff I can't remember is one thing. The worst is not being able to remember details from my life. I know when I was younger, while I was still in school, I could remember tons of phone numbers, the names of every teacher I had ever had, and all of my friends' birthdays. Maybe advanced technology—phones with saved contacts and Facebook birthday reminders—has made me lazy about remembering some of those things. But now, I can't remember most specific details from my childhood. Sometimes what I do remember seems to have come from my imagination. My mom often corrects my memories, and there are times when I honestly don't know whether I'm remembering something that happened or something I've simply convinced myself happened.

I often can't remember the details of my children's births. I don't remember their exact height or weight, how long we stayed in the hospital, or who all visited while we were there. Whenever I think about it, I have to look back at photos from the time to get the exact details.

As frustrating as all of that has always been, I've recently discovered just how difficult my forgetfulness can become when someone actually needs me to remember.

I'm currently separated from my husband and going through a divorce. My attorney asks me questions about things that happened during my marriage. What happened? When did it happen? How old were the kids? Where were we living? What happened before that? What happened afterward?

I wish I could simply sit down and tell the story from beginning to end.

I can't.

I remember pieces. I remember certain moments vividly. I remember how I felt. I remember things that were said or things that happened, but I often can't tell you exactly when they happened. Sometimes I know something happened before another event, but I can't tell you whether it was a few weeks before or several months before. Sometimes I remember an event but have no idea what year it was.

Trying to put my life into chronological order feels almost impossible when my brain doesn't seem to store my memories that way.

It's especially frustrating because these aren't meaningless details anymore. Dates and timelines matter when you're trying to explain your own history to an attorney. I can know something happened without being able to give it a date. I can remember that something was important without remembering exactly what came before it or what came after it.

And now that I'm not working, I don't even have the workday structure that used to give me another set of things to remember. My days are different now. My life is different now. In some ways, there is less to keep track of, but that doesn't necessarily make my memory any better.

Photos have become my backup memory. My phone calendar remembers appointments. Text messages remind me of conversations I don't remember having. Pictures remind me of places I've been and things I've done. Sometimes I scroll through old photos and recognize a moment without actually remembering the moment itself.

It's a strange feeling to look at a picture of yourself and know that the person in it is you, the people around you are people you love, and the event actually happened—but have no memory of being there.

I wonder how many memories I've lost without even realizing it. How many ordinary mornings, conversations, birthdays, holidays, trips, and little moments with my children have disappeared from my mind without me ever noticing they were leaving?

Maybe that's the hardest part about being forgetful. It's not forgetting where you put your keys or walking into a room and forgetting why you're there. Those things are frustrating, but they're replaceable.

It's the pieces of your own life that you're afraid you'll lose.

And now I'm living through a period of my life that I know I will want to remember. I'm making decisions that matter. I'm watching my children grow. I'm rebuilding my life. I'm trying to understand where I've been so I can figure out where I'm going.

Yet even now, I find myself wondering what I'll actually remember years from now.

Maybe I'll remember the big things. Maybe I'll remember the feelings. Maybe I'll remember the moments that changed me.

But the details?

Those have never been guaranteed.

I can't make my brain remember everything. I can't force a dream to come back after it disappears the moment I wake up. I can't recreate a childhood memory that may already be gone. And I can't always put the events of my own life into a neat chronological timeline just because someone needs me to.

All I can do is write things down. Take the pictures. Save the messages. Put the appointments in my calendar. Ask questions. Look back at old records when I need to.

Maybe someday I'll look back at all of those things and realize that even if my mind didn't hold onto every detail, I still lived those moments.

Maybe that's enough.

Or maybe, for someone with a forgetful mind, those little reminders are the closest thing I have to keeping pieces of my life forever.