I have hemochromatosis, a disorder characterized by excessive iron accumulation in the body. The surplus iron damaged my organs and ultimately caused my gallbladder to rupture. After someone called 911 and several hours elapsed, I regained consciousness in St. Mary's Medical Center without my gallbladder. I recognized that I was in a hospital, but nothing else was comprehensible.

Who am I? Where do I live? Who are these people in this bright, sterile room? I couldn’t remember or recognize them, but I still felt safe with them. That feeling of vulnerability has remained with me. After leaving the hospital, I stayed with friends, moving from one couch to another. They worried about me—I could sense it, even when I felt almost nothing. Fear was always there. My mind felt fragile. Vodka was the only thing that brought me comfort or peace. When doctors took away my license, friends drove me to appointments, the grocery store, and even the hot springs. I couldn’t go anywhere by myself. I knew I couldn’t keep depending on them for rides or a place to stay, but I didn’t have any other options.

In the subsequent months, my friends gradually returned to their own routines. Although they cared, they could not provide indefinite support. My alcohol consumption increased as I sought to withdraw from reality. My mind felt increasingly unstable, and vodka was the only substance that alleviated my intrusive thoughts. Drinking became one of the few remaining sources of comfort, and I depended on the sense of safety it offered.

Following surgery, I attempted to establish a new routine. I walked along the Truckee River, photographing trees, water, and sky. Occasionally, these images provided a measure of peace. Despite these efforts, I remained isolated, with no one or nothing to rely upon. My personal narrative felt distant, as if it belonged to another individual. There was no one to consult about my memories, and no one left to remember on my behalf.

I initially discovered old diaries containing my handwriting. Subsequently, I learned that I had authored three romance novels. I possess a degree in Creative Arts and am nearing completion of an MFA. Previously, I owned an art gallery in Genoa. At the age of twenty, I traveled alone to Prague during winter. Currently, I play several musical instruments, albeit not proficiently. Et je parle mal français.

After discovering my diaries and assembling decades of fragmented stories, I turned to writing as a means of survival. Through scattered recollections, I attempted to reconstruct forty years, seeking any semblance of understanding.

I married my son's father at the age of twenty-two. My mother, who was profoundly important to me, passed away when I was seventeen. Meeting J. was transformative. He was ten years older and had already established his life, whereas I had not. I became entirely immersed in his world. I felt as though I had been rescued, reminiscent of a romance novel. Having felt devoid of purpose, entering J.'s world was akin to rewriting my own narrative.

Within my notebooks, I encountered stories that unsettled me, as well as expressions of loneliness and fragments of my mother, who died when I was seventeen.

Gradually, I recognized that I had begun a new chapter in Trinidad, California. I devoted time to reading my mother’s numerous letters and her correspondence with her own mother. I discovered handwritten notes, typed pages, and many descriptions of myself. Each page contributed incrementally to the reconstruction of my identity.

Even after uncovering family history and memories, I remained uncertain about the future. Lacking viable alternatives, a friend allowed me to stay in his Burning Man trailer. The trailer was filled with playa dust, and I preferred not to consider what else might be present. I remained there because my only other option was homelessness.

I do not recall how I financed my vodka consumption, and I am grateful for this lack of memory.

TEXAS HOLD 'EM

Assistance arrived when David, a lifelong friend from Texas, traveled to Northern Nevada and brought me back with him. Previously, Texas had been merely a flat, tan landscape I had observed from an airplane window. And that didn’t change after the plane landed. 

Now settled in Texas, I write, knit, and spend time with my dog, Mr. Darcy. I established this site to share my experiences living with amnesia.

Supporting others with amnesia and their caregivers is one of my primary objectives. I welcome questions about my experiences so that I can offer insights based on my own life as an individual living with amnesia.

Currently, Michelle is focused on her memoir, a poignant exploration of her life with amnesia. This work delves into the intricacies of memory, offering a raw and insightful look at how her condition has shaped her identity and creative voice. —Mental Health Advocate