I am disgusted with the way that simple actions can bring back bad memories.
Cutting up an apple, for instance, reminds me of an unpleasant job in Seattle, where the ardent swain of one of the secretaries used to carefully core and slice apples for the two of them at lunch time.
Prepping tomatoes is another. That brings back a scene over 40 years ago at a then-friend’s house, when her father complimented a salad she’d prepared: “Good tomato, Elizabeth”. It was a difficult time and I don’t like to be reminded of it.
“A hell of a mess” recalls the petty egotist I worked for at a hospital in Dorchester.
I almost envy those with the type of brain injury that obliterates the past.