Thirty Years of Head Injured Memories & Their Impact on My Now.

In the spring of 1995, in downtown Toronto, Canada, I was walking along the north side of Bloor Street, heading west between Yonge and Bay Street. In that timeline, at the young age of 64, my mother died that same February.

I was searching for an ATM and spotted one across the road. After checking both ways for traffic—left, right, and then back again—” coast is clear” I decided to cross the street quickly, angling slightly to my right. Suddenly, I found myself sprawled on the street, gazing up at the endless blue sky. A surge of excruciating pain hit me moments later. 

The memories of what happened after that are fragmented now and not worth recounting in detail. What I do know is that I survived, was taken to the hospital, and was released the following day. Later, I learned from the investigating police officer that a taxi hit me and fled the scene but was stopped further down the road.

The accident, which was partly my fault because I jaywalked, left its mark. While I recovered and resumed a normal life, the incident scrambled my brain slightly, leaving me with lingering, though minimal, memory issues that have persisted on and off for decades. That accident marked the final chapter in a year filled with painful, tragic, and intensely stressful events. And there are years on my timeline that are blank. Gone.

Sometimes, when I reflect on my earliest memories, I find myself going further back than the first memory that initially comes to mind. Alternatively, it could be that these memories are compressed, making them appear closer together and harder to distinguish as individual moments or flashes. Or they are a shifting reflection, appearing farther away or closer together than they actually are.

While I can adjust the side or rearview mirrors to the best of my ability, it doesn't change their perspective—I remain focused on looking ahead and then from time to time I will check the mirrors.

If that's true, there's a strong possibility that some of these early "memories" aren’t genuine recollections [reflections] but rather images from photographs I’ve seen or stories I’ve been told. Let’s say from around the ages of 12 to 14—this might seem a bit late, but any memory from before that age range would typically be considered an earliest memory, at least for me. And my life after age 14, up to the accident at age 30, is not tethered to a single timeline but instead it is free falling and hanging on at the same time.

Even so, some images feel like authentic memories drawn from firsthand experiences. Perhaps the distinction lies in the nature of the memory—if it unfolds like a film, dynamic and in motion, it might be rooted in real life, while static, still images could stem from secondhand or even third hand sources. Most memories from age 14 onward—up to the accident and continuing to today—appear in fragmented bits and varying speeds, yet they feel genuinely mine.

A physical manifestation that might resonate is that of a viewfinder and film strip. Some memories seem as though I’m viewing them through a retro viewfinder. When I press the lever, the disc shifts, revealing a single image. In terms of film, imagine holding a film strip: one hand pulls it taut while the other moves it, revealing fleeting frames. Some images are clearer when the motion pauses, only to blur again as the strip advances—that’s what memory feels like now.

I can’t say for certain if this is typical, a result of the trauma or brain injury, or perhaps a combination of the two. Maybe it’s something else entirely, something I haven’t yet considered or understood. Recently, a long-time friend sent me a picture of the two of us together in our twenties. Although I recognize that it’s her and me, I have absolutely no memory of that event. Other times, we’ve exchanged text messages and audio messages where she describes things we did together, and still—nothing, no memory.

The moment that really made me stop and think about memory was when she sent me a copy of a love poem, I had written for her. It’s in my handwriting, dated, and signed. Wow. No memory of writing it. I was 21 years of age then. By the way, our renewed connection is purely as friends, looking back with affection. There's nothing more going on at all.

The hardest part of this is when someone tells me about something I did that hurt or helped them—and sometimes, I genuinely can't remember. Other times, if it hurts, I admit it seems like my subconscious might be avoiding things. That said, I'm not usually someone who avoids confrontation; when it comes to non-avoidance behavior, I'm generally known for being a bit of a fundamentalist.

I have recurring memories of my mother and me, maybe around age three, standing together. I’m not certain of the exact setting, but it might have been at a zoo. My three sisters are also there. I’ve seen still images of that same day—us all lined up in front of a fountain. I assume my father took the picture.

In it, my mother is holding my hand, looking like she’s keeping me from slipping away because she’s gripping my hand firmly. I look like a wiggly, whining brat, with a wince on my face. That still shot blends into my memory, running alongside slow-motion images. My mother and my siblings are standing tall and motionless. I am not doing that.

In this instance, the memory seems to be a mix of primary experiences, my actual memory, and secondary sources, like photos. But why am I writing about this? I’m writing about it because there’s more behind me than ahead. If I want to keep moving forward—“moving on,” as the saying goes—whenever possible, focusing on the future and looking back less will inevitably be a healthier and positive choice. Or it is commonly thought to be that way and it kind of makes sense. 

Recently, I had coffee with a new friend who is of the same age group, who shared an intriguing perspective on age and time. He explained that he doesn’t view them in a linear or fixed way, as I tend to, but rather as an evolving, organic timeline that ebbs and flows. I appreciated his approach, especially because he expressed it with kindness, not as a correction for me but as a gentle reminder. It made me reflect on how age and time can be more a matter of perception and suggestion than rigid facts or something to be perseverating over.

I am working on a system that will compress all my memories, sorting them by their significance, and placing them into a time capsule to be opened on the day of my death. I believe that doing this will make my current life less painful. I don’t want to erase or deny the existence of painful memories; instead, I want to store them for when they are needed for meaningful reflection.

And not just painful memories but happy ones too are in need of storage. They could serve as a source of inspiration or even as evidence to be utilized in the afterlife. Storing them creates space for new memories to form—or at least, that’s my theory. I am also sure that that idea is not new.

I wonder if the dead remember. Does the energy of the afterlife retain memory? It feels like such a simple, surface-level question to ponder. Maybe our brains are naturally wired to create storage capsules for memories, and that’s exactly what I’m experiencing. I can’t say for sure—because even if I once knew, I might have forgotten that I ever knew it at all.

Perhaps my struggle with memory, caused by brain damage, is actually a blessing in disguise. But then again, I might not remember that I remembered that as well.