Lost. . .

I am much more likely to fail at some things than Other People are.
On the face of it this is a truism. Of course we're all more likely to fail at some things than others. I, for instance, am likely to fail dramatically at playing the Warsaw Concerto, and you really, trust me, do not want me flying your airplane!
What I mean, however, is that while everyone makes mistakes, everyone forgets things, and everyone sometimes forgets something important and really screws up, "normal"(?) people do not forget as much as I do.
I have forgotten to show up for classes. . . that I was teaching.
I have planned things I particularly looked forward to, eagerly, day by day, "Is it time to go yet?" then hour by hour as the time wound down toward the longed-for event, then not only forgotten the event, but not thought of it again for two months.
I fairly commonly panic while on familiar roads near home, where I drive every day, wondering where I am and if I am headed toward home or not. This happens more at night than in the day, when landscapes suddenly seem terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Once, in my early 30s, I drove home alone to Ohio from Michigan, and found myself in Illinois.
I have to think about it to know whether I have brushed my teeth today, and I regularly forget to eat.
In short, I am not a dependable person. Deep breath. That hurts.
Am I sure I want to publish this where the world can see it?
What this means is that I travel through my days washed in low-level anxiety (high-level, killer anxiety if I am under unusual stress, because then I forget much more), constantly checking. Have I remembered to do what I said I would? Is there somewhere I am supposed to be? Am I letting someone down?
Story:
In my mid-30s, in the Dark Years, I actually had the blessed chance to get counseling from a sliding-scale county counseling agency. For $5 instead of $60, I could talk to a trained person. This, mind you, was in the era when I still believed I must simply be lazy, or something. Surely, if I tried hard enough, I could live the normal, only-sometimes-forgetful lives I saw people around me living.
I really liked this counselor. She was pretty young, and I wondered how she knew enough about life in general to counsel people older than herself, who had been through experiences she could only read about, but she was so kind and compassionate. She didn't think I was lazy, or a bad person. She believed I could succeed, and she believed she could help me. So I believed her, too. I looked forward passionately to each session, and hated when they were over. Somebody to listen to, to take care of, me!

To be continued. . .

Restoring the Breach,
Debbonnaire