Last November one of my dearest friends asked a favor. She’s working on a project that involved having her friends and colleagues write recollections that demonstrate her character strengths. The more detailed memories, the better. Do I know her to be one of the most caring and compassionate people in my life? I do. Could I conjure detailed examples of this? I could not.
This was not the first time my memory has failed me. For the most part, I just don’t retain very richly detailed memories. I remember that large, and even small events, have occurred in my past. I just don’t seem to assign the smaller details to them. I marvel when others spin stories of their past. Right down to what they or others were wearing, eating or opining. I can’t do that.
I feel like I’ve always been the age I am today. To be honest, I don’t really feel like I’m getting any older either. I don’t have many grand or detailed memories of childhood. With the exception of my mother’s death, when I was in 8th grade, there’s not much else there. I know that I was loved, but besides losing my parent at such a young age, I can’t reconstruct many specific stories from that time of my life.
As I’ve grown older, hello mid-to-late 40’s, I’m increasingly exhausting my supply of post-it notes at work. In fact, recently I purchased this cool Quartet Glass Dry-Erase Desktop thingy, to help save a few “sticky” trees. I carry a notebook to even the shortest meetings on my agenda, so that I don’t forget anything. I recently got a new supervisor that sends detailed summaries of our one-on-one meetings with action items for both of us. A revelation and so appreciated.
Greg has always been confounded by my ability to blankly stare at him, when he recalls smaller very specific memories of our past. Things we may have done on a vacation or movies we watched in the past. But of course, he’s the best person in the world, and loves me despite this memory thing. I’m thankful that he retains these special occasions and can share them with me. But, I’m also heart-broken that they aren’t etched in my brain…though I know they are etched in my heart.
Not long after November, I had my regular semi-annual visit with my primary care physician. I spoke with him about my “memory thing.” He didn’t seem too concerned. So, I guess it’s not a big deal? Should I talk to someone else?
Seeing as the interwebs have lots of information, I did a little web search and found this story about a woman who realized in her 60’s that her autobiographical memory was lacking.
For many years, McKinnon had no idea she was different. We tend to assume our minds work in the same way. We don’t often discuss what having a memory feels like. McKinnon assumed that when people told in-depth stories about their past, they were just making up the details to entertain people.
My autobiographical memory loss doesn’t seem nearly as severe as hers, but there are so many similarities. People with SDAM can learn and retain new information – but that information is devoid of the richness of real life experience. If a person can remember details about an event, it’s because they’ve seen a photo or deliberately learnt a story about what happened. They can’t picture themselves being there. Is this why I take so many pictures?
So this is what brings me to the reason for this post. Earlier in the month, I made a commitment to my self to journal more purposefully. To create a record of my memories, thoughts and feelings. To have something to look back on, to hopefully jog more detailed memories in the future.
a downtown story 