Dreadful Recall

Arnie, I ain’t.

I have a dreadful memory. It’s horrid. I can remember some things crystal clear, but others (and the number is increasing on this side of the fence) I simply can’t recall, no matter how hard I try.

It’s hard to describe how it feels. If your brain were a car, I would say it’s like hitting a patch of fog. everything was clear and easy up until the fog hit, but now it’s here, and not only are you unsure of your footing, the direction you’re going in, and the speed with which you are traveling, but you’re unsure of how much longer you’ll remain there, as well.

You’re stuck there, waiting for it to clear up, and not knowing if it ever will.

It’s un-nerving as all hell.

It’s also a birthright for me. According to genetics, I was likely to start suffering from memory disabilities eventually, anyway, since my grandmother and great-grandmother on her side both suffer from memory loss associated with Alzheimer’s and dementia.

Of course I worry that I’ll get worse. And the answer is that of course I will. The question is not whether I get worse, but at what rate?

That’s the question that wakes me up screaming at nights. At what rate will I progress?

A dull wind blows through me every time I think about it. So I try not to.

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