Amnesia and Mental Health

I feel like I’m breathing through dirt and shards of pain, and that’s all there is. I don’t think I’ve truly given up, but it all feels like bullshit. How many times have I tried to take my own life? Many. And I was terrible at even that. 

I need a hug, a real connection with someone I love and trust. I want to feel safe and escape this lonely skeleton hole I claim as my body. I’m on so many medications, mostly for my brain, but I don’t know if they’re helping. If they are, I can't tell because my sense of self is reflected in the disorderly chapters reading to themselves, inside my cerebrum.

This headspace makes it hard to write because I’m afraid to open that wound in my mind-that now feels like a dangerous place to explore. When I was 20 I hopped on a plane that landed in Prague. That was really scary—it was so much frightening then my first trip overseas. In Prague it snowed; I’d never been that cold before. 

Recently I’ve been traveling to Barcelona, I often go to Spain. This is the writing I get lost in—the memories and all the hurt. And many nostalgic memories. 

A woman with red hair and tattoos, wearing a black dress and pink sandals, smiles as she swings on a rope swing under a large tree in a natural, wooded area.

Nothing Goes Away

Now, I’m an instant photograph—an undeveloped Polaroid, seeking light to reveal myself. I’m composed of layers of amnesia—retrograde, antegrade. Pieces of who I am or once was diffuse into the painstaking, slow development of images. I’m not really an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane, am a Time Traveler. An object.

An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times, as measured in the surrounding world, does not equal the duration of the journey it undergoes. In this place, the soft grey shawl and my knitting project are on my Anthropologie quilted bed. The book on my nightstand is The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, with its pinkish pages, waits patiently for more words—words I will emote before talking incessantly about myself and everything that used to be my life.

There was a time when everything felt possible. I wrote stories I believed in, and imagined new places and the hope of falling in love.

Memories of sharing meals with people I loved. Mimosas at brunch. Cosmopolitans before dinner. Vintage chardonnay with dinner. I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently, I’m on the unpopulated northern lanes of Highway 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving, I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. Every day I write the book.

Now I drive west, heading toward Half Moon Bay. Always in my own car. Today it’s my blue Ford Ranger, the one I bought after my mother died. I was seventeen. She had only been gone a few months.

I pass the Half Moon Bay Nursery on the north side of 92. I drive through the edges of my town. My ocean, the salt in the air, blue sky, and the sea. White clouds stretch across the sun and water. I realize now how strange I have become.

I haven’t watched a movie with anyone in more than five years. I haven’t laughed with someone in just as long. Sometimes, something on TV or the radio pulls a laugh out of me—a quick, sharp sound. It surprises me. I hardly recognize it as my own.

Time is on my side. Gravity nudges me across cool, damp grass. Behind me, a 5’4” wide trail marks where I’ve rolled down the hill.

I’m jealous of many of the things I see on TV. And Instagram. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups.

“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.”—Margaret Atwood

Amnesia & Medical Visits

Disaster Girl. Ces't moi. If I recall correctly, I earned that nickname right after I shattered my tibfib during roller derby practice. Tahoe Derby Dames! Anyway.

So. On September 27th I was ordered to go the ER because I was anemic. This was a strange order because I've spent a lot of time with phlebotomists because I have hemochromatosis.

So I went. Had a bunch of scans. Gave blood, got blood. Went back home. And then, 6 hours later, the Parkland ER called me and ordered me to come back because of ACUTE PANCREATITIS. Again.

So then I went back to the Parkland ER. Got admitted. Was not allowed to leave the hospital for 8 more days. Etcetera.

As is common with lengthy hospital stays, I was attached to the bed through my hardworking IV pole. And a built-in bed alarm. Then, on my last couple of days, I was released from the alarm. YAY! I was able to, with IV pole in tow, go the bathroom all by myself.

Of course, on my way back from the bathroom, a wave of vertigo washed over me and I fell down. I crashed to the gross hospital floor—and brought the IV pole with me—yes, the heavy-as-rocks pole landed on me. (Yes, that is what she said.) It was a pretty nasty fall, which I know because of the gigantic bruise on my upper thigh.

Anyhoo. Just another day in Feisty Falls Down world.

A person with light skin and a blue floral tattoo rests their crossed arms on a hospital bed rail, perhaps after frequent medical visits. The scene suggests a medical setting, with small bruises or marks visible on the person's skin.

Hemochromatosis, Life & Alcohol

My Worlds Of Words

Each morning, I wake and find myself still present. I am in a living room, lying on a sofa, observing my hands. They continue to function, holding a fork and bringing mashed potatoes to my mouth.

A cyclone churns within my mind, with memories and knowledge fragmented by the relentless force of unrealized possibilities.

My phone says it’s Saturday. I realize I’m at Jake and Gina’s place. I wonder if we slept together.

Maintaining a semblance of normalcy becomes increasingly difficult. They interact with me based on their understanding of my behavior, although I do not recall these interactions.

At this moment, my heart beats forcefully, reminiscent of trains on tracks. I cannot recall my address. I share my living space with two other people, one is my son. Each morning, I think of him. His age fluctuates in my memory, sometimes eight, sometimes eleven. I am approximately thirty-six years old.

Upon waking, the house felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Each morning, confusion persists. My mind is turbulent, resembling a hurricane that hurls debris against the structure of my skull. This debris consists of my fragmented memories.

I devote significant time to introspection. I realize that I have not left my residence in several days. Others encourage me to go outside, and I am inclined to comply. When they request that I engage in activities, it appears to provide them with reassurance.

External sounds, such as screeching tires, ambulance sirens, and barking dogs, evoke fear in me. These noises consistently cause distress, though the reason remains unclear.

I remember getting my clit pierced. I remember lying on a sterile cot, spreading my legs. The male piercer pushed the needle through my flesh. It hurt more than childbirth.

Words resemble crevices in mountains. I traverse the deteriorating, unclean fissures formed by the scrutiny of others. My heart resists contemplation, analysis, and recollection.

I cling to my words. My worlds of words. I get lost in the history of a lifetime.

The Brain — is wider than the Sky

My 6th Grade Brain Assignment

Every day, exponentially expanding, are my thoughts. I then forget them. I have a room and all I see are things I've collected over the past two years. Yarn and knitting needles and more colored pencils and more yarn and. . . and the rest is mine, my things. My things fit into a box. My small purse and my three backpacks. My two photos of myself and my son. My flute. My ancient tv, on which I watch Friends and Sex and the City. My old bathrobe. 

My photos are in my old house, where my son still lives. We were sitting on the sofa, the sofa I chose with my husband. As far as I know, my ex husband, my son, and the new wife still sit on my furniture. 

My things represent my life because they are my life. My life is in this room. My blackout curtains block out the back of a giant satellite dish. It overlooks the pool five stories below. And across the way there is another giant building with the exact same apartments housed within. Each has a minuscule balcony that nobody uses unless someone is smoking. Sometimes I smell cigarette smoke from the twenty-somethings who live next door. On Saturday nights they play rap. I have never met them.

What's familiar to me are my knitting needles and my yarn. I know people I see on my decrepit television. I know when the tv finally dies I won't have that. I try to focus on what I do have. Still, less and less do I have any wish to bother.  But, I'm still a writer. I still have that.

I want to finish the hat I'm knitting for my son. I want to finish something. I wanted to finish my life, but I haven't and I won't. When I die I hope there's something good to do. Something to finish. 

I have memories, and I want to talk about them and, more than anything, I want to see them. I want to go on a drive through Hope Valley. I want to buy a sandwich at the Genoa Store. Then, I want to drive to the Playa and get in a truck. I want to drive into the desert and find hot springs. I want to smile and drive that weird road that seemed to go nowhere. It had nothing particularly memorable about it, except that it was old. There was a town with a Smith's, a gas station, and an old church. I want to see those things. I want to see a sunset from my own porch. I want to make toast in my own kitchen with my own dishes. I want to drink water from a glass I remember finding at a thrift store. Instead, I'm just sitting in this room. The dark curtains hide an outside that means nothing. I'm looking at Facebook and seeing familiar faces. I'm confused because I have no reason to make new memories. I have no way to do so. I have no relevance and nothing I see is relevant to me. I'm a million miles away from anything familiar and I'm driftless in my sky.

The Brain — is wider than the Sky
Emily Dickinson, c. 1862

The Brain — is wider than the Sky —
For — put them side by side —
The one the other will contain
With ease — and You — beside —

The Brain is deeper than the sea —
For — hold them — Blue to Blue —
The one the other will absorb —
As Sponges — Buckets — do —

The Brain is just the weight of God —
For — Heft them — Pound for Pound —
And they will differ — if they do —
As Syllable from Sound —

A person with short, pink-tinted hair and glasses is wearing headphones and a hospital gown while sitting in a hospital bed. Medical equipment is visible in the background.

Lightening in a Bottle of IV Fluid