Last night I went to the art opening and I looked at the icons, the earrings, the photographs of water.  A woman came up to me and introduced herself. She’s the mom of my stepson’s best friend. “It’s so good to see you again, Donna” I said. “Thank you for telling me who you are. You know about my condition?” She looked blank. I said, well, I so appreciate you telling me who you are and I have to ask you to always do that.  More blank. A step back. I stepped closer, closed that little gap. 

A couple of years ago, this would have been a huge ordeal for me. Trying to tell someone, all the anxiety about if they were understanding, how psycho I sounded, the stepping away. I would have given up. I would have felt hurt and burdened and terribly, terribly peculiar.

But now, I just smiled and said, simply, slowly, “I have a neurological condition. It’s likely I won’t recognize you. Ever But I really want to talk with you, so I’d love it if you can always remind me who you are.” She didn’t say anything and I just went on to tell her about how great it was that she bought my stepson that gorgeous green sweater for Christmas. How grateful I was she’d done so much for him. “It’s hard with him gone, on the submarine,” I said. “Incommunicado.” She said her son talked about him, his absence, every day.

So, now, I know how to close the gap. Before, with faceblindness—not knowing I had it, and then not sure how to tell people about it—I fell into the gap. I avoided art openings. I avoided everything—people, fun things, and most of all, my own self. I was incommunicado. For years.

Now, I am out. I’m above the surface, and we are face to face. Hi. I want to know who are you? I want to know how are you? I want to know, and know, and know.  I’m so much less afraid to step closer now than I was. Thanks to face blindness.

And thank you, Donna.