Amnesia #Twenty-Seven - Nancy Hayashi

“Your body has forgotten itself,” said Dr. Choo, the acupuncturist.

I sat upright on the patient’s table in the dimly lit treatment room, processing his words. It was the most beautiful truth and possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever said to a middle-aged, obese woman about her body. On the exhale, I released the heavy burden of shame I’d been carrying regarding my aging imperfect body.

That evening, his words resurfaced between my movements. 

As I folded laundry: Your body forgot itself.

As I scrubbed yams and broccoli: Your body forgot itself.

It was true. I had forgotten myself. I was suffering from metamorphic amnesia—a disease I coined for a condition built from years of personal neglect, resulting in a body one refuses to face.

I caught sight of my naked shadow against the bedroom wall. Silhouettes didn’t threaten me the way mirrors did. I laid soft and black against the golden beige paint, my curves revealed without harsh details or judgments. I wondered what I still appreciated about my body. Then, aggressively, I wanted to cut off the thickness of my thighs. The violence of that thought startled me. I realized I was angrier at my self-hatred than my actual size.

Later, as I washed off my makeup, I faced the mirror and realized it wasn’t just my body that had forgotten itself—it was my mind. I needed to find myself and love her or I would never be healthy. The realization made me dizzy. Delayed comprehension of conversations held over the past months floated back. Echoed words finally held my attention.

A text from a sorority sister: 

Remember, you are a badass woman.

A girlfriend, laughing as she picked me up for a happy hour: 

From a gangster to a white picket fence, huh?

A childhood friend as we brunched and reminisced about the past: 

If your kids only knew who you were…

By these descriptions, I sounded like I lived the life of a crime boss living in the suburbs under witness protection. Which wasn’t true, I was only the girlfriend of one once, another lifetime ago. I had been something else too, but I was fighting against amnesia, unable to find the answers. As the symptoms worsened, I looked for a prescription: Therapy. Doctors. Exercise routines. 

When my husband’s health declined, I went to therapy. 

“Why don’t you try being more playful?” the therapist suggested. “Have a pillow fight with your husband.”

Fuck off! A pillow fight with a sick husband? I might take it too far and accidentally let out years of grief and rage. How will I explain to the kids that I got arrested for killing their father with a decorative throw pillow?

My primary care doctor’s prescription for doing “not-a-damn-thing” fueled my anger.  “All women go through menopause. Get more exercise.”

Fuck you, too—for not seeing me, standing right in front of you. Woman to woman, I thought you’ld make a difference. Instead, when the appointment time was over, I got shoved out the door with nothing. 

Dr. Choo showed more compassion than either of them. During one visit, I admitted I’d gained the last forty pounds when my husband started dialysis. Before that, I’d been a healthy weight.

Then Dr. Choo asked, gently, “What happened when you were twenty-seven—before you met your husband?”

I shrugged. I didn’t like talking about the past. Twenty-seven was when it began. I worked hard to appear normal. I graduated college. Bought a house. Afforded luxuries. I was an ambitious, promising professional. I dated, traveled, succeeded—yet never felt settled. At thirty, I became a wife. Soon after, a mother. Roles I took seriously, but never allowed myself to fully enjoy. I was impatient, nagging, and unhappy.

I swallowed every achievement whole, while choking on my unworthiness. I hoped my disappointment would dissolve, but instead it spoiled inside me. My body reflected the exhaustion of trying to do more, be more, fit neatly into other people’s check marked boxes of expectations. I ran from myself, thinking that it was either weakness or laziness to be satisfied with the present when there was always more I could be doing. I treaded water with a passionate mix of strength and aggression. I never wanted to appear incapable.

Suddenly, I remembered something my former gangster boyfriend once said: “I feel most comfortable in prison. It’s safe. Routine. Conformity. Nothing to think about.”

Everything clicked. I had built my own prison—secured by sensible decisions: conformity reinforced with anxiety, perfectionism, and self-preservation. Professional ambition numbed my senses. Whatever energy remained went to serving my family. Nothing was left for me.

My amnesia got so bad that I couldn’t decide what I wanted for dinner or what music to play. I avoided family photos. I didn’t frolic on beaches with my kids because I was miserable. Everything had to be scheduled or I felt panicked and angry. I had forgotten how to live—vibrantly and fearlessly. Instead, I escaped to the couch or slept through bouts of depression, hoping to forget myself entirely. I thought rest was a reward for my ambition, but reality it was a retreat from feeling. 

Thoughts twisted inside me. Devour it or set it free. I didn’t know which. 

The next day, I ditched work. I drank a decadent marzipan oat-milk latte while watching waves crash at high tide. Sunshine warmed my face. Coffee warmed my hands. A quiet contentment spread through me. I had forgotten what it meant to sit in the present. The pains of the past didn’t matter nor who I used to be. In that moment, I was who I wanted to be: a woman with grace to allow natural, gentle emotions to be felt without anxiety urging me to be more. It was my moment of peace to heal and just be me for the first time in years.

I sighed, knowing everything was going to be okay. Yes, I had built my prison—but I also held the key. Live like a grown ass woman should- without needing to prove anything, especially to that critic inside yourself. Open that cell door slowly, and savor one sweet step of freedom at a time. You are already enough. Take pleasure in that and everything else will follow. 

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Nancy Hayashi is a writer of short stories, inspired memoir and poetry (on occasion). Her work focuses on experiences of growing up in the beautifully diverse community of Oceanside, California. Themes found in her work include tensions of evolving identities, community violence, and redemption. When not writing, she teaches high school, travels and seeks out pleasures in everyday experiences.