There are things I do remember, among them a love of quantum mechanics. Of late I have been running reality checks on life.
Of the things I know, my name has always been a problem. My Birth Certificate says Kenneth Blake Cash. but my parents never mentioned Kenneth was my name until after that first day in Kindergarten where the teacher called me by the “wrong” name. Turns out they wanted to name me James but didn’t want people to call me Jimmy, so they named me Kenneth and called me Blake. It made just as much sense then as it does now, so I am not questioning my ability to process that information. I have had identity issues all my life, so I should be well equipped to handle them now. I just can’t find my equipment.
I hear on a routine basis that I need to accept who I am now. Usually unspoken is “because you are not who you were,” sometimes with lovely imagery about being a new person every sunrise. Yeah, right. This is not a glorious dawn.
I am not precisely starting afresh every day, but more so than before, as far as I can tell. My short term memory is failing, I compensate by taking notes (when possible) and telling people I have difficulty processing information due to a brain injury. This is supposed to be a good sign, I am accepting what I am not “allowed” to acknowledge. I am not supposed to say I am damaged, or that the efforts I make are unsatisfactory. See, in what is left of my mind, being unhappy with a failure is a positive move towards self improvement, but I am not supposed to damage my own self-esteem. Hard to have self-esteem when you don’t have a self.
Who I am is based on what I recall about how I got here. Even the things I remember I don’t feel a part of, making it difficult to distinguish between memory and dreams. Last week I had a strong memory of flying a C-130, I could feel the trembling and see the ground falling away. Trouble is, I have no memory of attending flight school, and the possibility I actually piloted a C-130 is remote. This scared me deeply. How many of the unlikely things in my past did not happen? My “sense of self” is exceptionally weak.
As far as I know, I do not suffer hallucinations. I am considering verifying the presence of new people, and if I am ever aware a hallucination has taken place I will.
Most of my “feelings” are vacant, I have little emotion, and I am not chasing their return. I see enough people adamant about untruths and fierce about mistaken beliefs centered around the election, I don’t want that to be my life. Some of my facilities are returning, although their return can be fleeting; I am told they are an indication of “higher executive functions.” I have a sense of sarcasm, and I’m fairly certain that I can be humorous and people are not laughing at me (today). I am aware that testosterone is missing, and I am scheduled to see an endocrinologist to measure pituitary function, these would seem to be affecting my drive and will. Frustration occurs when I know I should accomplish something and just can not begin the project. I also have read that my serotonin levels should be addressed, but I doubt my own medical skills enough to leave the dosaging of SSRIs to professionals. Again, I know (or think I know) enough to see my primary physician is less than skilled in the administration of SSRIs, so for this and other reasons I am seeking out a psychiatrist.
I know I am not who I was, but I am not certain exactly who I was. This appears to be the perfect opportunity to redefine myself, but I know I will have no past. Seems like it was interesting, I hate to let it go.
I have read through my articles since the accident, I can identify a spirit believing it is healing. That spirit no longer exists, which in a way is odd; from what I am told, recognizing my deficits is an improvement over not recognizing them. So I’m better because I know I’m worse. You should not be surprised at my confusion. Expect incredulous questions about the election.
My desire at this point is to record these facets of brain injury, so that one day I will be able to collect and edit them into a book. What I am most aware of is I may not feel this way in the future. I certainly don’t feel as I did nine, six, or even three months ago. Writing is what I can do, and apparently I am a fairly good writer, although it does not feel that way now. I know I was married to a woman named Emma, and I blogged through her fight with pancreatic cancer, and I turned that into a book. I know this because I looked it up. It is nice having things written down.
My ability to see the future is on par with my ability to see the past, I have no way of knowing this will ever turn into a book, it is a dream, and I am told it is useful to have goals. One goal is to financially survive until Social Security approves my disability claim, I’ve been selling what assets I can on Ebay, and I have started a charity fundraising web page on “YouCaring.” Please consider donating a few dollars, the theory is it all adds up.
For now, I am Blake to my friends, Kenneth to my ever growing army of doctors, K. Blake Cash to my readers, and KB to my social media contacts and grandson (he says “kib”). The man behind the name is developing, trying to establish an identity with a foggy history. I think he will be KB, my grandfathers were known by their initials, I am now the age they were when they met Blake, now Blake can meet KB.
The construction of KB will be on a foundation of those memories he can verify, woven with the beliefs which resonate with his presence. I can remember every printer I ever touched and long to take apart new ones (the psychiatrist has a Toshiba, cognitive therapist a Konica Minolta, Neurologist Kyocera Mita). I recall an astounding array of songs. I have a couple of bass guitars but I can’t get my fingers to where they are trying to go. I know it is acceptable to end a sentence with a preposition. I have a drum, and I know how to use it.
In just over a month I will have my 58th birthday, I don’t know who will be there.
KBlakeCash 
Oh, yes, you are a writer! You write so well that I am envious. It is difficult to read the struggles you are having as I remember too well those that I loved struggling with short term memory. The dream of the plane, however, to my mind has a simple explanation. You are a writer. Scenes like this occur whether sleeping or awake. Mine can occur while sleeping or while typing out a story. It is beyond weird to realize you are smelling the body odor of a fictional character you have invented.
Your parents should not have worried about you being called Jimmy, but parents can be strange. I had a cousin that discovered his name was not Bud on his fist day of school. As you know my social media name is my pen name.
You are on a journey. Whether it is perilous is not for me to judge, but it definitely could cause panic at times. Prayers for continued healing.
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I’ve often wondered how many of my own memories are reliable, not because of brain injury, but the principle of “Gestalt”–our habit of filling in missing details to make sense of things. I’ve read that it is one of the reasons why we should distrust witness recollections at trial. Would be nice to have a Dr. Who to take us back in his Tardis and verify. Then again, I might not like the real memory as much as the one I have retained.
Your experiences would make an interesting book, perhaps a helpful one to not only those going through similar journeys, but professionals, as well. I would enjoy it simple because I enjoy your writing style and you always touch something in my own self.
My mother, quite advanced in years, is now suffering Alzheimer’s Disease. She is in the early stages and prone to the discomfort of realizing and living out the problems of a fading memory. I suppose the most uncomfortable thing must be realizing that you have no control over it, and can’t pick and choose the memories that are most valuable.
You are in my prayers this evening. That God would heal you and through this journey draw you closer to the Cross.
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That name thing–I thought I was the only one! My parents named me Mark Richard, but called me Rick … apparently due to a disagreement between them that resulted in a compromise. When I entered high school I decided Mark Hunter was a better name for a writer, otherwise I’d still be Rick–and it resulted in a lot of confusion along with, among some relatives, denial.
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