The Gift I Didn’t Ask For

Since the accident, several people-friends, family, well-meaning humans-have said some version of the same thing:

“It must be such a relief that you don’t remember it.”
“At least you don’t have that trauma stored in your brain.”
“It’s probably a blessing.”

I understand where they’re coming from. There’s this deeply American impulse to believe that unpleasant thoughts are best left untouched. That suffering is something to be minimized, erased, paved over with positivity and gratitude and a fucking bow on top.

But honestly? It pisses me the fuck off.

I hate that I don’t remember the accident.

And it isn’t like my brain politely reached in and excised just that moment, a clean surgical cut, memory removed, problem solved. No. It took almost the entire day with it. Big chunks of time. The crash. The immediate aftermath. The ER. The ICU. Days that mattered.

Those are not disposable memories.

If you know me at all, you know I don’t shy away from pain. I’ve never believed that life’s meaning lives in comfort. Where life and pain intersect, that’s where the good stuff is. Pain is where I’ve learned the most. Discomfort is where I found myself. Growth has never come to me gently.

So having those memories ripped away?

It feels like theft.

The moments during the accident, and the moments immediately after, defined the next three months of my life. They shaped my injuries, my recovery, my fear, my rage, my exhaustion. And I have had to live those months without understanding their foundation. Without context. Without narrative.

That fucking sucks.

I walk around carrying rage I can’t place. Grief without an origin story. A reaction without a cause. I can’t force memories back that are gone, so what the hell am I supposed to do with the feelings attached to them?

Sometimes that rage distills into despair. Sometimes it just sits there, heavy and pointless.

None of it makes sense.

And if I’m really honest, it almost feels like a violation.

These memories were stripped from my head without my consent. My story was interrupted mid-sentence and the page torn out. Can I blame the woman who hit me for that too? Maybe. Maybe not. Is there legal recourse for stolen memory? Of course not. The system doesn’t account for that kind of loss.

So I do what I’m expected to do. I nod politely when people tell me it’s a blessing. I let them believe the absence of memory is some kind of gift. I keep the truth, that it feels like a curse, to myself.

Because most people don’t understand this kind of loss.

They think remembering pain is the problem.

They don’t understand that not remembering can be worse.