There is a woman who knows me. We’ll just call her A. A was friends with my sister when we were on the cult in Alaska. A remembers me. A can tell me stories about myself as a child. I know A is correct because the stories are correct. My sister remembers A.
but I don’t.
There could be a million dollars cash waiting for me to pick out A in a line of photos, and I would leave the room empty handed and broke. I have absolutely no memory of her.
It’s like an itch that won’t go away. It’s disappointing and frustrating. It makes A sad, and I feel the same sadness, because everything in my being wants to remember her so badly. I want to remember the nights A said she slept over in our cabin. I rack my brain, just trying to get a glimpse of a memory of her.
How can this be? There are a few possibilities.
- I witness a trauma happen to A.
- A and I experienced a trauma together, and I blocked her from my memory.
- My own trauma was so prevalent that A was simply a non-factor in the magnitude of things so I simply did not register her existence.
There’s those “aha!” moments we have; where we remember “OH! That’s where the car keys are!” I need a lot of those moments to arrive so that that these little puzzle pieces can get put into place. I am ready to bring up the missing people.
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