By Julie Hua
The sunlight shining through my window felt searing, as if desperately wanting me to wake up. What day of the week is it? Not thinking much, I tried looking around for something to tell me the day. A phone beside me showed the date clearly: Thursday, October 20, 2022. People go to work or school on weekdays. Did I do either? I should’ve known if I had work or school; it was myschedule.
Something was off. Saying “my” or “I” didn’t feel right. Thinking only made white noise. I realized what was wrong.
I didn’t know where I was, why I was here, or even who I was.
I kept phasing in and out of reality during a therapy session later that day. Things felt surreal. I had to figure out the basics – my name, college year and schedule – through my resources. I was at my computer, adjusting my microphone.
“I’m sorry, I spaced out again,” I said. “What happened to me?”
I felt small in my room. Barren white brick walls with blue metal doors surrounded my front, left, and right sides. The door in front of me led to the bathroom. Looking at it made me scared.
“Oh, you were talking about what happened last night,” my therapist, Sue, replied. It felt awful not being able to recall everything.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how I got here,” I said. “I feel confused, and I don’t remember most of this session. I can’t remember who I am or what I’m supposed to do next.”
Everything felt wrong, but I didn’t know what else to do. Sue and I tried discussing the next steps, but without knowing how or where to get treatment, we reached the session’s end. I thought that UF could help me, even if there was a high chance they couldn’t treat amnesia. It was worth a try.
I needed a provider’s referral for medical attention, and I felt mortified about an ER experience. Even worse, I had classes on Fridays, so I had no time to figure out how to recover my memories.
I found out later that it was my mom’s birthday. She and my dad were coming to Gainesville to celebrate. In a flash, most of Saturday passed without me being aware. When I felt a sense of consciousness again, they were eating and talking in the restaurant, and I was looking down at my plate. My mom asked what was wrong. I couldn’t reply. I felt scared.
My dad asked, “Aren’t you going to answer her?”
I thought to myself, I have to tell them, right? They’re my parents. They have to believe me. I need help and support. Surely, they can understand how dire this is.
But they dismissed my concerns.
I tried to balance as much as I could. I managed the online courses since they were all in one spot, and I hadn’t fallen behind before amnesia. As for in-person classes, the work became more challenging. I felt extremely nervous, but at this point, I knew I needed to ask my professors for accommodation.
My astronomy professor wouldn’t assist. I had no documentation to prove my amnesia. I had sociology afterward, and I hoped my professor would be different. I waited for my classmates to leave as I stood by her desk. She asked, “Is something the matter?”
I started to tremble with fear, the first time I felt something in a while, but her compassion made everything warmer. I could only sob with happiness and relief as my sociology professor hugged me after I did my best to explain. I forgot what warmth felt like. I needed this.
I love writing, note-taking and organizing. My therapist told me writing things down helped me retain and recall information while organizing my personal and college notes engaged my mind naturally for possible memory recovery. I wrote down as much as I could, since forcing myself to remember kept piercing my head with pain. Three of my closest friends reached out one night while I wrote my notes. It made me happy knowing they still wanted to check in, and I felt like I could tell them everything. After I did, I felt that same warmth.
“Thank you for believing in me,” was all I remember saying.
My therapist told me she believed I had dissociative amnesia. Dissociative amnesia occurs when dissociation leads to memory loss. Witnessing or re-experiencing traumatic events causes symptoms to appear. My suitemate and her friend surfaced horrible memories that night in our shared bathroom, which my brain decided to block out later (along with many other memories) to protect me. My other symptoms included a lack of awareness, confusion, disorientation, and relationship and trust issues.
My therapist explained that processing what caused the amnesia would play a central role in my recovery, but considering how UF couldn’t help me in that regard and, in fact, kept me living with my suitemate, a speedy recovery would be challenging. It didn’t help that there is a lack of research and treatment for dissociative disorders. I had to take what I could get. The process to reach a healthcare provider that could help would have taken away much of school time, and the parental support and guidance to do that was nonexistent. I had to accept that my recovery had to be natural at that point. No matter how much my head hurt, how confused I was, or how foggy my brain would be, I had to persevere. It took months for me to say I fully recovered, but the support I had from my friends made those months easier.
The American Psychiatric Association estimated that 1.8% of the population experiences dissociative amnesia annually. We need more research and education to explain and understand these experience and what treatments work, whether medical or holistic. Being open-minded and considerate of the affected person helps in the long run. Asking what is wrong, attentively listening if they want to discuss, respecting their decision if not and offering resources can help tremendously. Unless treatment becomes more comprehensive and accessible, this range of disorders will keep affecting many people, just like it affected me.
Julie Hua is a third-year public health major.
“My public health story” essays originated from an assignment on public health storytelling for a public health messaging and dissemination course led by Brittney Dixon-Daniel, Ph.D., M.P.H., director of the Bachelor of Public Health program.