I laughed. I had heard the joke before, and there were many variations. It’s hard to be depressed about cognitive dysfunction when you don’t remember that you have it. There’s no need to worry because I will forget what’s there to worry about. Family, friends, medical professionals, and even I had quipped about my condition, but these days I prefer not to mention the TBI. I am meeting too many people too often, and I too easily forget who I have told.

The story was engaging, not for its whodunit thriller but for its haunting familiarity. Written as a piecemeal stream-of-consciousness, those words I could have written years ago when I was more aware of my disability in my everyday life, when I was still fighting for my mind, when I was so desolate at my loss. The harsh shifts in mood and mental clarity were pages from my own journal. The uncomfortable mix of sly wit and social detachment was reflected in my mirror. The profound disintegration of a knowing mind was a glimpse into my possible future.

Writing helps. Writing helps me focus, and shape these amorphous thoughts into a concrete chronicle. Writing helps me remember, not just details of the narrative but character of the narrator, every single day.