Menobrain Made Me Do It

My daughter sent me a meme this week. A woman, firmly attached to her dishwasher by a very sensible piece of rope, unable to wander off mid-task and completely forget what she was doing. My daughter thought it was funny. I thought it was a great solution.

This is my life now. I walk into rooms with absolute purpose and arrive with nothing. Not a trace of why I came. The room looks back at me. I look at the room. One of us knows what’s going on and it isn’t me.

I’ve started speaking in what I can only describe as my own private language. Sentences that begin with great confidence and then just… stop. Mid-thought. Mid-word sometimes. The people around me have learned to fill in the gaps, which is either very kind or a sign that I’ve been doing this long enough and they know me well. Probably both.

The thing nobody warned me about is the feeling that I’m not quite as sharp as I used to be. That the woman who could once hold seven plot threads in her head simultaneously, remember where she put everything, and finish a sentence with the word she actually intended, has been quietly replaced by someone who needs a rope tied to the dishwasher.

I’m a writer. Words are supposed to be my thing. And yet…

Here’s what I’ve come to though — I’m actually okay with it. The fog rolls in, I work around it. I write things down. I talk to myself more than I used to. I start tasks and finish different ones and somehow the day still gets done. There’s a strange freedom in having given up on being effortlessly on top of it all.

My twenty-year-old self had a very efficient brain and absolutely no idea what to do with it. My current self forgets why she walked into the kitchen and has written six books anyway. I’ll take it.

And honestly? “Menobrain Made Me Do It” is still the best book title I’ve ever accidentally come up with. I’m keeping it. Somewhere. If I can remember where I put it.

If this made you laugh, or nod, or both — you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. 🕯️