Her BrainStorm

The days following the surgery were unbearable and tormenting, to say the least. Time and reality were completely suspended. I was the master puppeteer of my own soul controlling an Avatar version of myself playing a human role – living for a purpose I could not quite gauge. Seconds felt like hours, and hours felt like years. I’d wake up in the morning and any recollection of the events that took place on the day prior were totally obliterated. Almost as if some sadistic higher power nonchalantly pressed the “delete” button and wiped my memory clean over and over and over again with no expiration date in sight. Please, let me catch my breath.

Just to give you a small insight of what this is like, the only way for me to remember whether I had brushed my teeth in the morning was to walk over to the toothbrush itself to physically feel for its dampness. Meals were the same. I “knew” I had eaten something based on my hunger level. If I wasn’t hungry, then I must have eaten. But what was it that I ate?!? Gosh, I can’t remember. DAMN IT I can’t remember! pfft… not a big deal anyway… Why even bother knowing? Then in my feeble attempts to satisfy my curiosity and Type-A personality, I’d dig through the trash like a famished raccoon to see if I could find any evidence of my eating. Come on egg shells, microwave food packaging… anything! Oh yes, I see some eggshells and some mushroom stems. I must have had that for breakfast.

Such events were common and soon became the “new norm” like the nice lady at rehab had forewarned during my cognitive therapy sessions. In complete frustration and anger, such instances would prompt me to lay on the bare kitchen floor and ball myself up into a fetal position wondering if life was even worth living anymore.

Add to the loss of my memory – the loss of a business, a marriage, and a parent. It’s enough to drive a sane person crazy. Enough to send a sane woman into a psychiatric ward actually. To add to the devastation, I lost my faith in a God whom I had loved and worshipped. The unshakeable faith I had proudly represented and unapologetically proclaimed to the world around me. The God Who was closer to me than the air I breathed… the God I spoke to as if He was sitting right there beside me every second of my life. I couldn’t explain it. I’ve never audibly heard this God or have ever tangibly experienced this God but I just knew He was real. More real and alive than anything I have ever experienced with my five senses. A mystic deity so grand, so loving, and so real. I get on my hands and knees and plead with Him. “Show me You are real God. Please. I won’t ask for anything else. I promise. I just need to know that You are real. Please.” Although I admit, I didn’t hear a voice, I really did brace myself for it. Meet your oh-so-close-modern-day-Moses. What I did hear was a deafening silence. A voice so silent and so muted that I couldn’t stop straining to hear. I want more. I need to know. In a frenzy, I start searching the internet on articles such as “how do you know if God is real?” “Did Jesus claim to be God?” A plethora of articles flood my screen; yet, nothing provides to me the relief and assurance that I’m desperately seeking. God, I’m drowning. God, please, help my unbelief.