I Can’t Remember the Title of This Article

But eventually, I will

My horrible memory gaps come down to a few things.

First, let me explain how they’re showing up for me. A friend recently asked what advanced degree I had—and I drew a blank. A couple of days later, “MFA in Creative Writing” flashed onto the silent-movie screen that is my currently shoddy power of recall, a degree I earned after pursuing it for seven years. Entire chambers of various cerebral lobes have been temporarily cleared out like recycling bins, only to partially fill back up days or weeks later. Names of close friends? Titles of movies I’ve seen multiple times? Favorite song lyrics? Here today, gone tomorrow, back again next week. It makes my head feel like Mike Teevee particles whizzing overhead via Wonkavision.

Here are a few things that are causing my brain fog of Karlesque proportions:

1. The Keppra I take twice daily after being diagnosed with focal epilepsy last year

2. Insomnia that developed shortly after the pandemic started, something that has just recently started resolving

3. Being generally perimenopausal—I don’t know how specifically perimenopausal I am, since I had a 90% hysterectomy in 2010, and blood tests are inconclusive

4. David’s death, and the grief that’s lessened but still surfaces, in both unexpected and anticipated moments

I stopped drinking alcohol in September 2005. I just say no to drugs. To tolerate this sheet of fog that follows me like a cloud over Eeyore’s head, sometimes I pretend I’m safe-room high or tipsy. More on that in a moment.

I’m a functioning fogaholic. I pay bills on or way ahead of time, do an uncannily massive amount of work—from book writing to marketing writing to parenting to traveling to chores to maintaining zero emails in my inbox at the end of every other day—and can do well enough in live conversation. I probably, I hope, come across better than I feel. Then again, when I have fits of clarity, I cram in as much productivity as I can, knowing that at any moment, the fog blankets might wrap me up and make things fuzzy again. Ultimately, I know I’m doing good work.

Visualizations help. Sometimes I imagine I’m Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, immortalizing an early-morning Star-Spangled Banner while, most likely, completely drugged. At least brain fog’s legal, if uncontrolled. Taking copious notes—my “cope notes”—and keeping detailed lists of things helps even more and makes me feel less guilty. Thankfully, I’m not at Memento level. I have faith this won’t happen.

Why? Because of the good news: I can try a new medication. I’m getting more sleep. Visibility around perimenopause or menopause is through the roof—many women are devouring books about it or have become virtual-card-carrying members of the We Do Not Care Club. There’s also more awareness around invisible disabilities. More often than not, people move out of the way for someone in a wheelchair or using crutches. Someone slurring their words or using the wrong ones altogether? Well, maybe they move for that, too, but for different reasons. Things are improving, however.

Granted, it’s hard to bypass the conditioning of a perfectionist culture and the potential anxiety of not living up to an arbitrary standard. Even the term “good enough” implies that the norm demands excellence.

Still, as the fog keeps rolling in and out during a typical San Francisco summer, I’m doing the best I can, navigating adversity the way I always do—with humor, with patience, and by glancing often into my resilience toolkit. For me, despite the ups and downs, it’s continued proof that clarity doesn’t have to mean perfection—just persistence, muddled thoughts and all.