Out of Sight, Out of Mind
If I can’t see it, does it exist? For me, vision isn’t just a sense–it’s the key to remembering, organizing, and feeling balanced.
Written by Alicia Murray
I was in the car when it happened. I’d been driving for less than ten minutes when I realized I didn’t know where I was driving from. A hazy image of my partner danced in my brain, but I couldn’t grasp it, clear it, cement his face in my mind. In a desperate attempt to remember what he looked like, I flitted from one thought to the next until I was half convinced he was a figment of my imagination. There are few fears stronger than the self-inflicted worry that your loved one isn’t real. I’d struggled with holding onto things for as long as I could remember, but this was something new: my partner, a human I loved and cherished, felt like an illusion conjured in the recesses of my brain.
Weak working memory: a term I learned at my ensuing therapy session. In the same breath, I was asked if I’d ever considered I may be neurodivergent (I had not). Several years and an ADHD Combined Type diagnosis later, I’ve rediscovered the importance of sight. Unlike a baby who doesn’t understand their favourite toy continues to exist when it’s not in front of them, I know that it exists; I just forget. My brain struggles to keep an image of the item unless my eyes are pointed right at it. Out of sight, out of mind.
For this reason, my parents used to think I was simply messy and disorganized. My childhood was littered with countless fights about cleaning my room. My parents insisted that my clothes should go neatly into my dresser, and I rebutted that I had to keep them in piles on the floor so I could see them and know what I owned. My parents couldn’t understand why I couldn’t see the clothes by opening a dresser drawer, and I couldn’t understand what they didn’t understand. For me, a closed dresser drawer meant death for the garments inside, destined to be forgotten until the next spring cleaning. And as the years went on, the consequences of my so-called forgetfulness increased. In high school, I’d dutifully tuck project instructions into my binder, only to forget to complete the assignment. In university, I’d close my laptop for a study break, only to forget I’d been studying at all. In my personal life, I became anxious and depressed, frustrated that I wasn’t living up to my latent potential.
It was in university that my frustration heightened. I was forced to ask the question: What do you do when accessibility measures are not accessible to you? Over the course of my undergraduate studies, more and more professors began to assign e-textbooks. Online readings can be beneficial for many reasons, such as using less paper, being less expensive, and having more accessibility features, to name a few. My grades, however, did not benefit. Without a physical book on my desk, taking up space in front of me, I could never remember to do the assigned readings. For the working memory deficit brain, a hyperlink one must remember to click on twice weekly is scholastic suicide. With no print counterparts to these online resources, I eventually began to print things off myself. When copyright permissions didn’t allow for this, I would copy the text into a Word document and print that instead.
I learned how to learn the hard way. I stuck Post-it notes with reminders around my home, things like “brainstorm essay ideas” and “write essay” and “submit essay” smothered every surface. I developed a four-calendar system: a whiteboard calendar over my desk, a calendar set as my desktop background, a calendar app on my phone, and an agenda in my backpack. I became so afraid of being perceived as disorganized that I became perceived as neurotic.
In short, I was ashamed. I was ashamed of these over-the-top organization tactics. But more so, I was ashamed to need them in the first place. In my moments of I-know-I’m-forgetting-something-but-what-is-it-and-where-is-it panic, I’d scream, “WHY AM I LIKE THIS?” half humouring myself and half hating myself.
The answer is simple: working memory is part of the brain’s executive functions, and people with ADHD often have trouble with executive functioning. A better question would be to ask, “How do I show love to myself?” The answer to this question took a lot longer to learn. I was twenty-three years old before anyone noticed I might be neurodivergent and twenty-five before I was officially diagnosed (ADHD is routinely missed, dismissed, or misdiagnosed in people assigned female at birth, especially those who, like me, are a person of colour). Even still, this revelation by my therapist came after several years of regular counselling sessions. Embracing neurodivergence has proven to be a three-pronged undertaking. Understanding the way my brain works was the first step, changing the way I conduct my life was the second, and reframing my mindset is an ongoing process.
Taking care of yourself is an act of love—an act often easier said than done. Slowly, I’ve begun to restructure everything, relying on the power of sight to get me through everyday life. Vision isn’t simply how I see the world—it’s how I navigate it, too. My dresser is now exclusively for small items like socks and underwear; everything else gets hung in a doorless closet where I can see them. My fridge is organized by height to avoid smaller items getting lost (and going bad) behind a larger item. My phone has scheduled alarms to remind me of medications, appointments, and bills. I take photos of things I do not want to forget. I still use multiple calendars, but I no longer use Post-it notes. I’ve found what works for me, for now. Sometimes, in a fit of I’m-forgetting-something panic, I still ask aloud, “Why am I like this?” Now, I am half humouring myself and half reminding myself. I know why I am like this. It is okay that I am like this. I can do this.
