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6:30 p.m. - 04/05/02 I gave myself a headache earlier trying to remember the name of the island Rae was from. It's crazy, but until it popped into my mind, I felt completely disoriented. As if I'm barely hanging on, as if I need every little bit of memory and knowledge and life I can get, and losing any of it would mean certain destruction. This past year, watching my dad's memory deterioriate for no apparent reason, I kept thinking about what it would mean if her developed Alzheimer's, if he couldn't remember my name anymore, or the significance of me. And then I become terrified, absolutely terrified, that I'll develop Alzheimer's, and in my terror I think, "well anything I am so adamantly opposed to happening will surely happen" and I know I'm done for. Because what will I do if I can't remember, can't connect things, can't catch hold of a story long enough to tell it. Rae is from Orcus Island; all is well. And now there are people in my house, loud voices and food being passed around, and I am hiding in a room, late for dinner, feeling so completely thrown back to where I was a year ago. And all I want, all I need, is someone anyone here to tell me that I am important (to them), and that I have somehow changed the course of their day, but I can't get that because how much worse will I feel if I call someone and break down in the tears that are clutching at the surface of my throat, my chest? My dad has A.D.D., which is part of why he can't remember things. When he said it, I just stared at him. "That's wonderful." What? "Well...it's better than Alzheimer's." chord � � |