Fingerpainting: A story of Olivia. Her Journey During, After, Since…

***Disclaimer: This entry contains sensitive information about mental illness and the struggle to overcome it. Please reach out to Betterhelp.com, your local hospital, or clergy if you, or someone you know, is struggling with mental illness.***

Fingerpainting: A story of Olivia. Her journey During, After, Since…

During:

It felt so easy. Just slip into it like warm water. Inviting like open arms. Sleek like heated oil to barely damp skin. Her brain drunk it in. The seducing sadness crept around her mind. Its fog reaching in to darken every place warm light had never been until there was nothing but darkness. She watched it play around her feet. Coiling her thoughts within its squirming mass. Each day began with a sigh.

The alarm rang. The first thoughts of everyday were critical. She steadied herself against the hate she felt for the days new sun. Its faithful rising always taunted her. It never wavered and brought its yellow sun and blue skies. She wondered, ‘Why can’t I wake up and the sun is blue and the sky is orange? Just once. I’d like it that way.’

Her bills and responsibilities loomed large. She peeled herself out from under the covers of her bed and thrust herself to the floor. Almost instantly she decided not to shower today, either. She enjoyed the slightly filmy barely noticeable coat of grime upon her skin. She didn’t care if she stank. She wanted more to preserve the just of bed warmth for as long as she could.

The digital clock glowed red with the time. 5:38AM. She had to quickly dress so she would not miss her train. She always wore t-shirts and jeans. They were safe. They were easy. They were predictable. Dressing this way made that singular part of her public life most easy to manage. Her hair was long enough now. She could finally put it in a ponytail. ‘I’m just glad that the razor marks don’t show anymore,’ she smirked at her reflection and quickly left the room.

As she locked the door to her studio apartment, she felt the frosty morning breath creep past her jacket and snuggle in her arms, hands, and tennis shoed feet. Her exhale danced in the barely lit space beyond her mouth.

There were just a few blocks to walk to the nearest subway. She walked with bravado and more attitude than she felt. Always glad that nobody tested to see if she was as fight-ready as she thought she seemed. She boarded the busy train and tried not to look anyone in the eyes. Her voice coach, the inner whispers, told her whom to trust and what to fear, had told her that the eyes always spoke too much. She believed that her eyes would most surely give her away. Someone would read the sorrow, self-hate, suicidal heart, and sociopathic mind and condemn her immediately. Jostling on the city subways always felt like a dance. She tried always to treat it like a sport. She wanted to balance and not need to touch the ‘just-hand-warmed’ railing where some strangers grasp had been. She hates germs and people bred them. She could not look at them and prove they washed after using the bathroom so she rarely touched public things like railings, door handles, hands, and such.

The train conductor called out another stop and she measured in her mind how much further before her workday would officially begin. When she finally heard her stop, she maneuvered to the exit to de-board the train with everyone else. Walking into the office was easy as long as no one said, ‘Hello.’ She could keep her eyes averted and not see and hoped she would not be seen. If someone saw her, they might ask her something. Anything they asked would be an invasion and her mouth had become unpredictable.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘How are you?’

(silence)

She never knew what her answer should be. Should she answer politely?

‘I’m fine.’

Should she answer truthfully?

‘I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate you.’

She found safety in her invisibility. She felt most sure that no one would ask her how she was. She knew how to vanish right before their eyes. She knew how to check out. At some point in her life, she had found a way to the secret room inside her own mind. It opened when she felt she wasn’t wanted. It opened when she knew that people were taking advantage of her. She could go there and be alone and safe instantly.

Her office was filled with the necessities and little things of value. Just out of view she kept the beautiful gifts from Europe where her family vacationed in the summers of her youth. These were her little treasures. A small glass-blown unicorn. A delicate autumn leaf. A water-colored post card. The wrapper of a chocolate bar eaten many years before. The odd thing about her job is that it brought her little satisfaction but she was exceptionally good at it. She could do 4-5 times the work of her other office mates and that is how she was promoted to supervisor in this department. The driving need for production and perfection are both what caught upper management’s eyes though she couldn’t have wanted it less. Still, the money and improved position provided her with a cushion between herself and ‘them.’ She needed only to see the numbers to know if they were working up to standard. The weekly meetings were mere formalities like roll call. The essence of them had long lost its value and meaning. She didn’t see them as people. She didn’t care for them personally. She only wanted to maintain this separateness and power.

Her mantra went something like…

‘Get here on time. Do your job well. Go home on time.’

It seemed so simple. She supposed that they all would go on like this forever. Why should anything change? Nobody was happy but who was happy anyway? It’s the little things that creep in when all is still, that was the sign of the sorrows to come. The way her eyes glazed over in the middle of a conversation. The way her anger flared red hot over the simplest things. There was this way that she looked when no one was watching. She would catch her reflection in the mirror sometimes. Her face draped in sorrow so deep she ached physically.  She longed for death the way some people loved chocolate. She was committed to it and relished the idea of it consuming her body quickly and hungrily with no thought for her soul.

Of all the friends she thought she loved she couldn’t talk to any of them. Not really. She could barely think of herself and try to make sense of the growing sadness. How could she confess to a friend, ‘I hear voices telling me to kill. Kill myself. Kill anyone. Even to kill you.’ There was no way she could say it aloud. It’s not like talking about simple bland things like shoes or hairstyles. It’s not even common and easy to share the woes of men and our odd differences of life and style. No. This dark secret was for the bus stop confessional. Blabbing to a distant stranger brought relief like cutting and there was no chance they would see her again. People don’t mind sickness and disease that can be cured with a scalpel or rest. People aren’t ashamed to declare, ‘Hi. My name is Ralph and I’m an alcoholic.’ Who, but someone not in their right mind, is going to stand and declare, ‘Hi. My name is Olivia and I’m pretty sure I’m crazy.’

As she washed down the french fries with the last of her coffee she sighed, ‘I just can’t stand it. I’m so sick of all of this. I don’t know why I wake up everyday shocked that I’m still alive. I look at other people and I wonder how do they take it. This work is a waste. My heart is lonely. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how I can change my life, but oh my GOD, I’m exhausted and I hate my life. I hate myself!’ Her thoughts trailed to her obituary. She wondered what would it read. This morbid fascination with her own demise influenced everything. What she did and did not do all marched around that same circumference. She measured her actions against that final document with the regimented regularity of dieters who despise every gram of fat.

After:

The single phrase was spoken and believed.

Everything happened.

Everything changed.

There’s something strange about this sudden forgetfulness. She is living in a spacious weightlessness. No longer grounded by the paradigms of the past. Her consciousness is fuzzy. She begins again, from a pinpoint tiny moment, right in the middle of chaos. There are a few remnants of the past lingering to give her a frame of reference but no more. Her mind is filled with so many unanswerable questions.

How can I know that this is real?

How can I trust that this is permanent?

What if something happens and I lost myself all over again?

If I lost myself, would I ever re-recover?

How do I explain to people who I am?

What do I say to my former friends?

How do I explain to my family that I don’t know who they are?

How do I learn what I don’t know?

How do I live with the blanks where my memories of my life should be?

I’m not sure what to do when I walk into a room. I’m not certain that all the people I see are real. I don’t know what has happened to me. I don’t know how to explain what happened to myself. What if nobody believes me?

The first time I heard someone jovially say, ‘Girl! You’re crazy!’ I immediately thought, ‘Oh no! I’ve made a mistake and they know!’ It has taken time to learn that phrase is jokingly said to mean I am funny and this moment is to be enjoyed. Actually, not many people know my history. I’m certain this random person doesn’t know. What’s more, I am no longer homicidal, suicidal, or crazy. It's just that I have Retrograde Amnesia and I am learning who I am and who these people are who call me 'family' and 'friend.'

Since:

I no longer wonder, ‘How long will this cure last?’ Finally, and at last I fully relax and just be my new self. Without needing to mark the spot with an ‘X’ or pin. I’ve grown into this exquisite freedom with joy. I no longer rehearse each conversation with exhausting fastidiousness to be certain of what I said. I accept that I am finally completely free.

Everything is new. Everything is the first time.

For Christmas this year, in joyful celebration, I will make a pie. I enjoy eating pie and think this will be a good time to try to make a pie. Online I got a recipe and followed the instructions. I am relieved when the end result looks like the picture and tastes divine. I decide to share my joy. I call my friend on the phone and gleefully exclaim,

‘Guess what?’

There is an awkward pause because there is not enough context for the question to get an answer.

“What?”

I am laughing as I sigh, ‘I made a pie!! It was so delicious I had to call and tell you. I found this recipe online and I made it!”

Another silence that feels like a dropped call…

…’You always make great pie!’

I was crestfallen and startled together.

‘What do you mean, ‘’You always make great pie!’’ ?'

‘That’s what I mean. You always make great pie. You make great apple pie and delicious berry pie. I really like your chocolate pie.’

All of a sudden there is a clanging in my ears. This is another one of those things that I have forgotten that I do not know I have forgotten.

Timidly, I ask, ‘What else can I do? Was I in the FBI? Do I know how to fly a plane? Do I know judo?’

The laughter floats mid-air.

I’m serious and concerned.

This and other moments like this are par for the course because I don’t know what I remember until I realize I don’t know something like this. Once, there was a stranger who spoke in familiar tones because that stranger and I have spoken many times before. I do not know them. The faces of my family are no longer comfortably familiar. There are friends who have been lost because I do not manage friendship now as I did before.

There is almost nothing worse than the anguish in the eyes of those who love me and wish I would be who I was. They look longingly at who I am and cannot hide their dismay that I am not my former self. I look so differently. I have lost the weight that padded my body. I lost the weight that cluttered my mind. I have immerged from the cocoon of my past and now I only want to be free. I want to always be free.

I cannot revert, would never revert, to that former me even if I could. I would not go back to the ‘old’ Olivia ever, not for anyone. I want only to enjoy this lovely dance. I relish the sweetness of all things good. I take the bitterness and experience every element of that bitter taste, too. Every looming fear becomes the target. Rather than running from what I am afraid of I run to that ‘something’ armed with faith in JESUS to conquer that fear.

There is very little statistical data about this rare happening that has changed my life so completely. There are only 3 or 4 medical cases documented to date. I think perhaps it is something that has occurred to others but this kind of amnesia is not easy to discuss or explain. Perhaps this beautiful gift of forgetfulness is a miracle to treasure and relish. This new life is full of adventure and wonder. I could call the outrageous spontaneous amnesia ‘anxiety’ but I call this feeling ‘excitement about my uncertainty’ instead.

 

Feel free to shine,

OneLight

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