Neuropsychologist Diagnoses
The greater the loss, the more brain is fucked. This is a phrase that plays on an infinite loop inside my skull. Every time I look for some item I put somewhere I put myself down for being such an idiot. Then I remember that my brain is fucked. But. Life will go on. And I'll forget that.
My Name's Michelle And I'm Not An Alcoholic.
Alcohol was the only thing that felt familiar and seemed to help me get through a life I barely remembered.
Amnesia and Mental Health
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.
Amnesia And Real Lives
I am on day eight in Saint Mary's. Reno, in a bright, glowing red. I am in room 407. That's me. 407.
My Amnesia Battle: Anterograde Vs. Retrograde
My memories are shrapnel and bloody bits of flesh and jagged pieces of time.
SAFETY IS AN OBSERVATION
I want a sandwich. I want ice-cream. I want to eat with love. With people I love.
Nothing Goes Away
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.
Amnesia & Medical Visits
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.
ABOUT TIME
Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. Life, too, is also of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slow, dim into the darkness.
My Life With Death: Suicide & Survival
You have bleach, a box of razor blades you bought twenty years ago, at Flax, and a very sharp chef's knife. But the knife was a birthday gift so it seems disrespectful to use it to slit your wrists. Plus, wrist slitting seems like an acute challenge and you've never been good with details.
My Worlds Of Words
Like a lot of people, I wake up every morning. I'm sure this is true because I'm alive. Again. I'm in a living room, on a sofa. Staring at my hands.
ABOUT TIME
Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slow, dim into the darkness. Often I wish I was still younger. My terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.
