The doctor’s words played over and over in my mind, set on repeat with no end in sight.
According to the therapist I met with at the hospital, the violent experiences I endured caused my brain to go into emotional shock. My head was hoarding said traumatic events as a way to protect my mind from itself. As far as I knew, nothing ever happened. The potentially harmful memories were blocked out. Stuck in the unconscious purgatory of my brain where they would remain until I was willing to free them.
What if I didn’t want to free them?
I knew I was Mia Ryder, daughter of Lucas and Alexandra Ryder. Sister of Mason and Bo Ryder. My memory wasn’t completely lost. There were some key moments I still recalled, like the first time I rode a bike and my first day of preschool. Even the time I jumped into the pool and landed wrong, fracturing my arm. But I couldn’t remember what my favorite food was, or my favorite color, or the first time I was even kissed. It was as if there were holes in my memory... I knew where I lived, but not what my room looked like. I recognized my uncles, aunts, and cousins, but confused their names.
The list of what I did and didn’t remember grew with each passing day. It was an endless scroll of paper I couldn’t keep up with.
We hadn’t discussed the bullet wound in my back or the scar from my pregnancy. I was told that I was missing for several months, but no one bothered to talk about the details or mention how I was found. Everything remained a mystery that I was too exhausted to solve. We also didn’t talk about the man who got kicked out of my hospital room by my Uncle Dylan after I woke up.
Nothing.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t asked, or it could have been that they didn’t want to divulge the truth. I figured it was probably a little bit of both. My therapy sessions were starting in a week, and I assumed the truth would eventually reveal itself behind those closed doors.
To be honest...
It was just another thing I didn’t want to know. If my mind blocked out the traumatic memories, why would I want to remember them? It would only lead to more harm for me and my family.
It was so overwhelming not knowing who I was, how I was supposed to act, what to say and not to say. Especially when everyone around me looked at me with such fondness and love. They waited months for me to be found, never giving up hope that I was alive. And I couldn’t even remember I was missing to begin with. No amount of words could describe how deeply it hurt my heart to see the struggle in my family’s eyes. Looking at me, desperately searching for the girl they anxiously prayed for to return.
Mia Ryder.
The exact same girl...
I prayed would never be found.
The day had come to lay my baby girl to rest, an event that no parent should ever have to endure, but here I was doing exactly that. The only difference was I didn’t feel the tragedy like most would. I spent the whole morning laying in bed, blankly staring at the ceiling, conjuring up excuses to why I wouldn’t be able to attend the funeral.
What was wrong with me? Was I always this heartless? Why couldn’t I mourn my baby?
One question after another plagued my mind till I found myself out of bed. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, in nothing but my bra and panties. Lightly tracing my finger along my C-section scar. Lazily tilting my head to the side, watching the motion through my reflection. While a voice in the back of my head screamed at me to dig deep, try to push through the murky waters separating me from the truth.
It was like I was having an out of body experience. A battle between the conscious me and the unconscious me. I watched from afar as a girl who looked like me stood there in a trance-like state. Going through the motions of life, feeling absolutely nothing but guilt that she couldn’t remember her own flesh and blood.
Then there was me, yelling at my conscious self to snap out of it. Willing her to remember what she once loved more than anything in this world. Breathing life into her to feel, to mourn. To honor a life that was so cruelly ripped away from her. Trying to break through the wall my own mind built, so I could feel whole again.
And not this girl who didn’t feel anything at all.
“You ready, sweetheart?” Mom asked in a gentle lull, walking up behind me later that morning.
I was once again standing there, staring at myself in the full-length mirror in my room, only this time I was clothed. Taking in the black dress and cardigan I was wearing, along with a pair of black heels I had slipped on to complete my outfit for the funeral. My dark hair was down, cascading along the sides of my pale face, a face I no longer recognized. My once bright blue eyes were now empty of any life. They held no emotion. They were just dark pools, hollow caves staring back at us.
You’d think that would be enough of an answer for her.
It wasn’t.
It never was.
Not for any of them.
I didn’t answer her question, preferring to stay silent instead. I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready for this. I learned rather quickly, once I was released from the hospital a few days after I woke up. It was better to just stay quiet and not say anything than to say something wrong.
She gazed at my reflection in the mirror with the same familiar longing I’d come to expect. She hesitantly reached up to sweep my hair back away from my face, placing the loose strands behind my ears. Wanting to get a better look at her broken daughter. Not grasping the fact that I was intentionally trying to hide.
“You look beautiful, Mia Pia,” she whispered, silently hoping the term of endearment would stir a memory inside of me.
It didn’t.
My whole family did this, more times than I cared to count. Thinking it would jolt my memories free from the black hole in my brain. All it did was the exact opposite, making me feel more frustrated and alone.
“Thank you,” I simply stated, turning my face away to avoid the disappointment in her eyes.
“No matter what. I’m always here for you. Please tell me you know that, sweetie?”
I nodded, knowing she was being sincere.
She spun me to face her, taking hold of my chin to make me look at her. “You don’t have to do this. No one expects you to be there if you can’t, Mia. The last thing we want is to cause you any more distress.”