Absent Memories: Moving Forward When You Can't
Look Back
Rebecah Propst
Paperback, 5.5x8.5 in, 132 pages
Wheatmark, August 2007
ISBN: 9781587368424
Description
Rebecah Propst is a college graduate who worked as a legislative
liaison for a statewide trade association, spent some time as a
broadcast journalist in the National Guard, earned a black belt,
ran a marathon, wrote operations manuals, and managed a small
business. The only problem is . . . she remembers none of this. All
memories of her life before age forty-seven have been
erased—as if someone deleted the files on her mind’s
hard drive.
With no prior experiences to draw upon, Beki initially saw life
through the eyes of a child: as a fascinating adventure. But as an
adult without a past—without any knowledge of the cultural
norms and codes of behavior most of us take for granted—the
world was a frightening place where she didn’t belong. She
had to learn how to survive in a reality as volatile as
mercury.
Absent Memories: Moving Forward When You Can’t Look
Back is Beki’s firsthand account of a life passage beyond
imagination. Her journey to self-sufficiency and self-assurance is
an inspiration for all of us.
Excerpt
Dealing with the loss of the past, itself, wasn’t difficult.
My past simply didn’t exist. I didn’t know enough about
what I’d had in that past to feel anything about what was
missing from my life now. I didn’t know enough about the
world to compare my current situation with that of anyone else. I
had no idea what I was missing, so I couldn’t feel sad or
angry or disappointed or jealous or upset. I saw the world as a
baby must see it. Everything was new or yet to be discovered.
Dealing with the consequences of my loss was a different matter.
Unlike a baby, I had no one to introduce me to the world. It took a
while for me to understand that many of the things I “just
knew” to be true were mere assumptions. For example, I just
knew that once people understood my situation, they’d adapt
to it effortlessly. New acquaintances would instantly understand
that our friendship could be built only on future shared
experiences. My family and friends would understand that we’d
have to get reacquainted and establish new and different
relationships. Employers would easily agree to give me more
training than other employees. This viewpoint certainly felt right.
However, it was based on the mistaken belief that people could
truly understand my situation at all.
For me, my past was irrelevant. It couldn’t be anything
else. Discovering the person I’d been before I lost my memory
might be interesting, but what did it matter? What did that
person’s childhood home, friends, or hobbies have to do with
me?
No one seemed to agree with me. Everyone maintained that it was
essential to rediscover what I’d forgotten. My father was one
of the most insistent. He told me, “You need to know where
you came from, who you are.” I couldn’t understand it.
I knew who I was. I was the person standing right in front of
him.
Finally, I agreed to investigate, primarily to shut everybody
up. I visited my childhood home, called people from my past, met
relatives, looked at myriads of pictures, and listened to dozens of
stories. I learned where I’d lived, what schools I’d
attended, where I’d worked, what men I’d married,
blah, blah, blah. The resulting history was fragmented,
distorted, and contradictory. After a while, I assembled a bunch of
details about my past life and accomplishments—a collection
of biographical information about someone I didn’t know. None
of those facts resonated with me, but they seemed to be critical to
everyone else.
Another of the things I unconsciously believed was that
friendships were natural consequences of living. Mine would be
fundamentally the same as any other; my missing past would barely
be noticeable. I looked forward to making friends and learning
about the world through their eyes. All I had to do was meet people
and friendships would develop.
There was just one minor problem. I didn’t really know how
to meet people. I knew there had to be some kind of accepted
procedure involved in getting acquainted, so I set out to learn it.
My dad had been involved in politics for much of his life.
He’d explained how he’d made a living working with
people to solve problems. Everyone seemed to like him. If anyone
would know how to get acquainted, he would.
“Look people in the eye, shake their hands, and
smile,” he advised. “And don’t give them a weak,
girly handshake,” he said, taking my hand and gripping it
firmly.
”Don’t be afraid to ask questions,” Dad added.
“People love to talk about themselves and share what they
know. Most people will be honored that you asked. In fact,
they’ll probably think you’re the most interesting
person they’ve met, even if you don’t say a
word.”
His advice turned out to be pivotal. I started to meet all kinds
of people, and my learning curve skyrocketed with each
acquaintance.
Over time, however, I started to understand that memories play a
much larger role in friendships than I’d imagined. References
to the past crop up in almost every discussion. “Man, these
CDs are a far cry from the old records, aren’t they?”
What are records? “If you’ve got the bucks, you
never go to jail. Look at O.J. Simpson.” What does money
have to do with staying out of jail? Who’s O.J. Simpson?
“Watergate was Nixon’s downfall.” What was
Watergate? Who was Nixon? “I spent many a night
draggin’ Main in that old Studebaker.” What’s
“draggin’ Main”? What’s a Studebaker?
“My first girlfriend was a hippie.” What’s a
hippie? “Come in! You don’t have to knock;
you’re my sister.” What’s so special about
being a sister? Everyone’s reminiscences were fun, and my
imagination always got a workout, but my ignorance of “the
good old days” quickly became more frustrating than my
ignorance of my own history. My questions were hiccups that
interrupted each conversation.
