This is not a satirical post; this is a real thing: My mind is like a faulty hard drive. Seriously! Tracks and entire sections of my memory cannot be retrieved. I believe this has been happening my entire life. Family and friends who should have caught on by now are continuously astounded at the things I can’t remember. There is probably an applicable medical term for my condition (not Alzheimer though, since memory loss has not noticeably increased with age–or, at least I don’t believe so).
Two examples at opposite ends of the “You’ve Got to be Kidding Me!” spectrum:
1) My husband swears we went to a Chicago concert. Zero – Zap – Nada – I got nothing.
2) For seven years I was director of administration for a company called MicroAge. In that capacity, I evidently had an assistant (in those days we called them secretaries) who I ran into at the grocery store about three years after I’d quit. She hugged me–I swear she was tearing up–and she waxed on about how often she thought of me and how she missed me. Again–Zero – Zap – Nada – I had nothing. I was too embarrassed to ask her name and stumbled though a very awkward conversation. Only because she mentioned she had stayed at MicroAge for another year after I left the company did I even know where she knew me from. When I got home I called a friend who I’d worked with during the same time frame and he filled me in. Nothing he told me called up any memory of this woman, although my friend said “Nadeen” had worked as my personal assistant for the last five years of my employment.
My encounter with Nadeen (may she rest in peace–the same friend mentioned years later she’d died in a trailer fire) was the first time I realized that I had a very real and very serious memory disorder. I’ve never sought medical help (that I know of).
There is a reason I tell you this. When I started my blog centuries ago now, I said my primary purpose was to document my progress as I attempted to write a book–my first book and the first thing I’d every written except for a few poems way back in time. Well, as it turns out, I’m a liar, liar, pants on fire!
Recently I decided to repaint my home office/den/library/optional fourth bedroom. A side benefit of this was to sort, toss, and reorganize paperwork and other ephemeral junk that we’d collected over the last twenty-six years. In the course of that project, I came across a typed (yes, TYPED) unfinished manuscript with my by-line. Once it’s scanned into a document file, I think it will be somewhere between 20-30,000 words. The title is “An Heir to Murder”, and since the setting is an antique store, I assume I wrote it during my downtime when I owned and operated … wait for it … an antique store. Zero – Zap – Nada – I got nothing. Seriously, nothing!