What was I saying? What were you saying? What was I doing? Why am I here? In this room? Holding a spoon? Tea? Yoghurt?
What was this thing I said I’d do? What was that idea I had? About a present for my birthday? About a present for your birthday? About a book I thought I could write? About a cake I thought I might bake? About a restaurant I thought we could try?
Who was that person I said I’d call? About a will? About a plumber? About a… Oh, you get it. One of the great lies I tell myself is that I don’t need to write things down. That I will remember. Because I won’t – not the short term stuff anyway. I’ll remember your birthday and the date I lost my virginity and weird details about that holiday in Majorca in 2003 but… What was I saying? Oh. Can’t have been important then.
I have not been diagnosed with anything sinister. Yet. And I know I am not alone in my Midult moments. I can’t remember anything. And, not being organised to have one ‘working document’ I just have a load of texts and emails sent to myself with things like ‘Write letter x’ and ‘Make appointment x,’ which are supremely unhelpful. But I do always put a kiss on the end of a memo to self. Just nicer.
My memory is utterly shot but I am just about getting by. Not that organised. Not that dynamic. But above water. In fact, the forgetfulness seems to have removed a whole layer of stress. Can’t remember what needs doing = don’t worry about what needs doing. Apart from that nagging feeling that my life is slithering through the cracks in my swiss cheese brain. Sorry, what was I saying? See? Quite relaxing…