Doubting Memory

I needed to process my thoughts about this post which is why I haven’t posted for a few days and why I posted safe posts (recipes) in the days before now.

I knew when I started this blog that I was putting myself out there and that people would cast their judgments upon me. I have a few family members who read this blog. Only my most trusted family members have the link to this blog and know that I am the author. I know that what I am about to post may cause hurt feelings; however, I want my trusted and loved family members to know that I am in no way angry at them. Their comments to me about this blog are part of my healing process, so I thank them for their love and tender concern for my well being.

Last week I got a call from a concerned family member about one of my posts. Because she and another family member could not remember me wearing leg braces, they assumed that I had lost it. At first this really bothered me because I did wear them. I called my mother and told her that I was talking to said family member about wearing braces and that she didn’t remember me ever wearing them. My mom of course remembered that I did wear them. She even shared with me a story that I didn’t remember. She said that I hated my shoes so much that I sailed them down the gutter and that she had been very upset with me because the shoes had been so expensive. We talked about me fighting her when she would try to put the braces on me at night. It was nice to have someone confirm this memory that was so vivid to me.

My family member did remember the story about the shoes riding down the gutter which made her feel that she could then validate the fact that I wasn’t completely mentally nuts.

I struggled until yesterday with this conversation. I thought, “Why is it that just because I have D.I.D., my memories are somehow less reliable than hers?” I thought, “What if Mom had been dead and unable to confirm my story – then would my family members think my story about wearing braces was just the imagination of a crazy person?” I was hurt and considered not writing anything else – except for recipes on my blog. I wondered if everything I wrote would now be questioned. Would I have to defend everything I wrote if someone else’s memory was considered more reliable than mine because I have D.I.D. and they do not?

As I pondered all of this, I could feel the scream settling inside my chest. My daughters know who and what this scream is. I am not able to talk further about it at this time. But anyway, I could feel myself being silenced again. The fears that were instilled, “No one will believe (hear) you if you tell,” resurfaced. I became voiceless once again. I felt unable to share my story with anyone. I even considered going in and deleting every post and then killing the blog, but with every thought, the strangled scream ached to get out – to be heard – to never be silenced again.

Two days ago, I shared how I felt with a trusted friend. He said, “You knew you were putting yourself out there, but you are strong; you can handle this.” Later that day, the epiphany came, but I was too tired to write it all down. Today, I am ready. Today I thank my concerned family members because without them being concerned for my mental health and sense of reality, I wouldn’t have come to this understanding.

I thought about my younger sister who is schizophrenic. She was an odd little girl because of abuse and perhaps the onset of her mental illness. Because of this, she became an easy target for all of us. I thought about how we, as young girls, often told people she was lying when she was telling the truth. She said what she wanted to say – everything else be damned – we felt her unabashed truth would sink us all. Her unwillingness to keep our family secrets caused us to strike out at her. She had no qualms about telling people that our mother was living polygamy. We didn’t want to go into foster care, so we would say, “Oh you know how she is; you can’t believe anything she says;” then direct at her, “You are such a liar.” Although we were children, it sickens me to think about how we treated her. We used society’s inability to accept "different” to try to make people think she was lying when in fact she was telling the truth. Society is quick to judge anyone who doesn’t think the way they do. Even people who trust me are quick to doubt me and throw me into that other world of “she is just not quite right in the head land” because I have D.I.D. They, like me, doubt the memories that come from someone who carries the mentally ill label.

I thought about how easy it is for me to doubt those who don’t think the way I do. My sister with schizophrenia has valid memories, yet because I don’t understand how her mind works, I discount everything she tells me as possibly being a figment of her imagination. I thought about the role we, as little girls, played in her continual downfall, and I mourn for her and for us – the pawns caught in a tangled web of lies and abuse.

I don’t have the answers to most of this, but I love situations that make me think – and think hard. This situation did just that. It didn’t detract from the love I have for the family members who questioned my stability when I wrote about something that had slipped their minds. I know we can’t remember everything, nor do I expect anyone to remember things from so long ago. I do know that we all have memories that are very strong for us, and yet that same memory may not have been a blip on the radar to anyone but us. This was a wake-up call for me to be less willing to call everything into question that someone with mental illness tells me. Because of this experience, in a small way, I realize how my sister must feel when people doubt all that she says.

Perhaps if we had allowed a little girl to speak instead of calling her a liar, our abuse would have ended sooner. I am so sorry for the role I played in helping to silence her cry. I can not in good conscience silence myself either, so this blog will go on.

A prayer goes out tonight that in my lifetime, our society will discover enough about how the brain works to eliminate the doubts that all of us – including me – have about those who carry the label “mentally ill”.