Missing People

There is a woman who knows me.  We’ll just call her A.   A was friends with my sister when we were on the cult in Alaska.  A remembers me.  A can tell me stories about myself as a child.  I know A is correct because the stories are correct.  My sister remembers A.

but I don’t.

There could be a million dollars cash waiting for me to pick out A in a line of photos, and I would leave the room empty handed and broke.  I have absolutely no memory of her.

It’s like an itch that won’t go away.  It’s disappointing and frustrating.  It makes A sad, and I feel the same sadness, because everything in my being wants to remember her so badly.  I want to remember the nights A said she slept over in our cabin.  I rack my brain, just trying to get a glimpse of a memory of her.

How can this be? There are a few possibilities.

  • I witness a trauma happen to A.
  • A and I experienced a trauma together, and I blocked her from my memory.
  • My own trauma was so prevalent that A was simply a non-factor in the magnitude of things so I simply did not register her existence.

There’s those “aha!” moments we have; where we remember “OH! That’s where the car keys are!”  I need  a lot of those moments to arrive so that that these little puzzle pieces can get put into place.    I am ready to bring up the missing people.

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