Was it better not to know what my absences were?

I think I now understand why my parents were always so reluctant to discuss my absences with me. It wasn’t until the events of four or five years ago that it was clarified in my mind that they are a mild form of epilepsy: until then, as I once noted here, the way mum and dad had always tried to dismiss or ignore them made me assume that I was just imagining them. Yet I think I can now see why they did that: over and over again recently, I have caught myself fretting about my memory, worrying about whether I’ll one day start to forget things. Almost unconsciously I tend to rehearse stuff in my internal monologue, going over events I want to remember. As I wrote here, I know that’s blatantly irrational, and that there is nothing to say epilepsy effects long-term memory; but it’s as if the very fact of knowing that my brain is periodically disrupted by these things is enough to make me question it and fret that I’ll start to lose the mental records of all the incredible things I have done. I’m starting to think it was better when I didn’t know what my absences were; when I just tried to ignore them. Yes, I was ignorant, and that knowing the truth is usually best, but at least I fretted less about somehow spontaneously forgetting things. It also allowed me to hope that my absences would one day stop. Looking back, my parents were wise not to tell me what my absences were.

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