It’s Monday, and despite a busy Independence Day weekend, writing and publication are two things that do not break for the holidays! Therefore, as promised, here is another fragment from my upcoming memoir, “Shattered: Memoirs of an Amnesiac.” As always, you can pre-order the Kindle edition for $3.99 on Amazon by clicking right here.
For those who are still waiting for the trade copy to be available – it’s coming, and will be available on Amazon and through my publisher’s site for those who want signed copies. Details will be coming soon.
Today’s fragment is a rough one for me to share, but in an effort to tell the absolute truth about my life and my condition(s), I feel that it’s worth posting. And it poses a question as well: if a person loses their memory, how easy is it for others to get that person to believe anything? Who is responsible for knowing the truth – the person with the memory loss, those who help that person, or everyone involved? Read the following to get a sense of what I mean:
Late September, 2010
I was never myself – or, at least, the self that I was trying to become during my tenure at Brook Lane. As my 29th birthday approached, I didn’t understand what that number really meant. I didn’t look 29. And I knew I didn’t act 29. Besides, I was watching my life as though I were in a perpetual dream – I was stuck behind a plate of glass, with every action controlled by the voice. She seemed to know some things that I had yet to learn – not necessarily memories or life skills, but how to get men and women to do whatever she wanted them to do.
When Starlight Boy came over that Monday in the late morning, we both fell into each other’s arms as though we had done it a million times before. And we had, he told me. I just didn’t remember. The voice allowed me to be there for that, but only for a moment. Then, she threw me behind the glass again as Starlight Boy picked me up, kissed me, and held me on the couch, our limbs tangled and woven together.
Why was I allowed to watch this? When had I lost all control? When had my brain become so separated from itself?
Since I hadn’t seen my Starlight Boy since the amnesia, we spent the entire day on the couch, cuddled up, conversing and kissing. It didn’t go further than that. He worried about my physical and mental health once I told him about the occasional paralysis in my legs and the voice that sometimes entered my head. And I thought to myself that he would run away. If so, then, I needed to push him away. But I couldn’t. I could tell we loved each other, and that love went far beyond physical attraction. We had a history, and no matter what other people told me, Starlight Boy was not manipulative and cruel. He loved me and wanted to keep me safe.
“Don’t listen to Toby,” he said when I expressed concern about loving two men at once. “I’m closer to being your real husband than he is. You can consider me to be your husband, you know.”
Was he? Had it all been a lie – Starlight Boy was my husband, and Toby was a kidnapper?
“He’s keeping you caged up in here,” Starlight Boy continued. “And I would never do that to you. I love you so much. No one that I could ever meet or see will change that. You’re the only one. I’d be lying to both of us if I said otherwise.”
As I wondered who, exactly, this man was, he pulled me against him and kissed me. And my heart told me one answer: Starlight Boy was the one. He was my husband. And no one else mattered at all.
(For more excerpts from “Shattered: Memoirs of an Amnesiac,” please check back every Monday at 10 am. And pick up your pre-order for Kindle today right here on Amazon!)