Questions and Then Later, a Return to Our Previous Story

Some part of me genuinely wonders if writing these stories down has any merit beyond simply recording what happened to me? I mean, who the hell cares? At the end of the day, the stories make almost zero sense. Why would anyone read them? Just asking. I find myself compelled to write about my experiences in the coma, specifically because of how intense they were, and how much they continue to exert pressure and influence on my daily life. Imagine if you went to sleep and woke up with more than thirty years of memories, crammed into an already full head. What would you what to know? How would you juggle your new memories with your old? Who gets that precious real estate in your mind? Do you throw out the foreign memories or accept them as freeloaders? Or do you invite them in and sit with them a while?

This is what I struggle with.

Each day, almost every day, there is some point, where a smell or a sound will trigger a brief memory. Same as we all have, all the time. The only difference is that my memory didn't happen to my body during a conscious waking moment. It happened during my coma. Maybe that invalidates the memory by some people's yardstick. I don't think it would take much to punch holes in most people's true measure of the validity of memory. The assumption that this was a dream also fails to fit neatly into that category too. We forget dreams, incredibly fast. Even vivid dreams that change our lives, bend and fold and quickly are reabsorbed into our normal life. It has been three years now, and these memories are still bright and vivid and as real as yesterday. I close my eyes, and I am back there.

I welcome responses, questions, whatever.

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