Dissociation is a word that I fear to use in reference to myself, but it’s the only one I have left. I have become almost accepting of a certain degree of separation within my own mind. This feeling of not even being present when I can see my own fingers typing is no longer a foreign one. I can seemingly go months at a time trapped in a fog of my own world until it all comes crashing down. I look at photos from last year and have little -if any- connection to the person staring back at me. It makes it difficult to have any definition of who “I” am.
Over the years I have more or less neglected every memory I should have held dear. My ability to forget names and birthdays pales in comparison to the loss of entire beings. This year I re-learnt that I had already read Harry Potter (three times), that I already knew how to play that Violin solo and that my knowledge of even the most recent political events is hugely lacking. But those aren’t the moments that hurt. Instead I had to have someone else remind me that my dad has had a heart attack, that I have seen more than one dead body, that my mum went through chemo while supporting my brother & I through school. If someone else has to tell me my own past, is it really mine?
Muscle memory tells a story of a girl who’s birthday is in 1996 and who’s signature has been set in stone. It speaks of someone who has (at one point or another) learnt to write, read, speak and play maybe a dozen instruments. But is a person no more that their habits? Am I still the girl that learnt the violin if I have long since forgotten her? My mind is to tired to question philosophy.
Instead I’m left with memories that hurt too much to not be my own and too many questions that can’t be answered.