The Sad Side of Happy

6: pieces

From THE THINGS WE FORGET, p. 5, part I

 “Every Piece of Me”

August 25, 2015

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Every piece of me is fractions of what I used to be; songs unsung and poems unspoken. Every piece of me is fractions I cannot erase—whether I like them or not; they are a part of me. Maybe it’s time for me to accept things the way they are. Perhaps it’s time for me to admit that I can no longer go back to the way I was—to the way how things were. I no longer remember the sound of my friends’ laughter. I no longer remember the pain my Mom has caused me; I no longer remember the feeling of happiness of what used to be.

I no longer remember how every piece of me worked.

My Dad—who I wasn’t able to recognize for sixteen days—told me I woke up with a smile on my mouth—even when I had a neck cast on, and my mouth had stitches. And the first thing that came out of my lips was a very long sigh. Was I satisfied? That I do not know of. And I do not plan to know of it. The doctors came rushing in a moment after, and my eyes were wide but unaware. I probably looked dead. The doctors told me I was staring at nothing for more than a minute, never blinking. Then, the first thing that I ever said was, “Why can’t I remember anything?”

Dad tried to explain. He said a lot but all I understood were: car accident, a man whose identity was a secret, second chance, being in a coma for almost two and half weeks, broken bones, me looking like s**t and all that stuff. Might as well consider me dead if I were in a coma for a month. But I’m grateful. Being alive and all.

Anyway, not remembering anything pains me. I don’t even understand why the first thing that I said was a question about not remembering anything. It felt surreal, though, waking up like a baby but being conscious about everything. I was oblivious to almost everything—I had to learn how to write and read again because I couldn’t distinguish words from numbers. I tried for nearly half the year (actually trying the first half of the year, and almost giving up the second half).

So here I am now, living with my Dad and younger brother in New York. It’s noisy, but I like it. Dad said we lived in a rural area before I got into an accident. I wanted to know if the pre-accident me loved the peaceful stuff back there so I could differentiate New York from the other. But I guess I’ll never be able to find out.

As I said, not remembering anything pains me.