written by Luna Adasha. Luna is a novice writer, trying to explore this new writing world. They are surprised how no one near them has ever encouraged them to endeavor writing.
I find myself sitting in a lit room, occupying a chair; as I fix my gaze upon the wall. It has been some time since I could recall the identities of those who came to see me, or the names they utter when they address who I am. Everything seems to be slipping. Resembling a puzzle that is lacking crucial pieces. The tapestry of memories that once adorned my mind is now slowly unraveling, strand by strand.
I catch glimpses of those visions, like scenes from a distant movie. The sound of a child’s laughter, a meal in the summertime, the sensation of holding a loved one’s hand. They’re all fragments from a past life, that has already slipped away from my grasp. My thoughts have transformed into a blurry painting, where colors mix, and shapes become indistinct.
Each and every day, I grapple with the fear and confusion that accompanies this constant fading. Trying desperately to hold on to my thoughts, I clutch them as if they were leaves about to be scattered to the wind. Who am I? Where am I? These questions swirl in my mind, lost in the intricate maze of my thoughts.
I want to express myself, to pass the message across to my family that I am still alive. Yet the words don’t come out of my mouth. They pay me friendly visits and talk to me as gently as you can imagine. But their unrealistic talk escape me. My world is dying. Their love is a lifeline, a bridge between my fading plane and theirs.
The days have been turning into weeks, weeks have been into months, and I have become an observer of my own existence. I see myself in the photographs – a reflection of who I once was. The pictures appear to be the doors to ancestral times, and I catch my breath, trying to understand the unclear faces in the pictures that look back at me.
I know that time passes, the inexorable progression of Alzheimer’s. It’s like I am about to step onto the edge of a huge abyss, looking down into a deep and mysterious void. Fear of not being myself remains with me, but there are clear moments of understanding; when I regain the ability to separate thought from reality.
In those moments, I remember the love and the life I’ve lived. I recall the joy and the sorrow, the laughter, and the tears. It’s as if the mist in my mind temporarily lifts, and I’m allowed a glimpse of the world I once knew.
Yet those moments are as brief as the shining stars of the night. My sickness is always elusive, pulling me down with its roots. I try to recover the shards of my life, that used to make sense before. I would like to share the unconditional love I still have, all the suppressed feelings hidden beneath the labyrinth in my head. I need to feel that I am being heard, seen, and understood.
As I sit in this chair now, in this softly lit room, I hold out hope that someone will bridge the gap between the fading world I now inhabit; and the reality I once knew. I hope for connection, love, and lingering memories even between the faces; of the indiscriminate embrace of my disease.
The burden of this situation is not only the loss of memories, but the decay of my core. I miss the moments that defined my life, the faces that brought me joy, and the stories that were once the fabric of my soul.
There are times when I get lost in a rough sea of ideas, with no lifelines to pick up. A lonely place, where I feel like a spectator of my own life, watching the shattered pieces of my past race by.
In this time of despair, I crave the simple pleasures of life that I once took for granted. I miss the taste of home cooked meals, the feel of the sun on my skin and the sound of laughter filling my home.
But there are also times of grace. When the elusive nature of my mind allows me to see the world differently. I notice the play of sunlight on the walls, the patterns in the leaves outside my window, the gentleness of a familiar hand holding mine.
In those moments, I realize that while this sickness can steal my memories, it can’t take away my ability to experience love and connection. The emotions that define me remain intact, even if the pieces of my mind are scattered.
And as I continue this journey, I cling to the hope that my family will walk beside me. That their love is a lifeline to bridge the gap between my crumbling world and their reality. A reminder that I’m not alone in this mysterious plane, and that I was still being raised even with confirmed Alzheimer’s disease.
Image: Untitled 5 by Ross Bradley
Born in Wexford town, Ross (he/him) has spent the recent years of his life, telling their story through the medium of graphite. They have chosen art as a way of life, mainly because it was a way to express themselves creatively, through secondary school, and college.