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The further we get from events the more we doubt our recollections, or at least our interpretation of them. Likewise, the more we understand about ourselves, the more likely we are to doubt the significance of events which once seemed all-important.

By now I am willing to concede that my own understanding of events may have been impaired by paranoia, depression and anxiety, which caused me at the time to blow everything out of proportion. What for others may have been a passing moment of jest may, due to my state of mind, have taken on a life of its own, cementing a narrative founded on uncertainty at best.

But then we have snippets of memory, and mementos from the past which serve to tell stories of their own. Here, a photo from my youth. It is as clear as day to me that I was ill back then. So why was it not clear at the time? Is it purely because I have not seen that face for decades, making it stick out so evidently now?

In truth, I knew there was something wrong with me even then. Fortunately in those days we did not have camera phones always near at hand, so our exposure to ourselves was generally limited to the morning glance at the bathroom mirror. But what about those around us? Well strangers could certainly see it with their cruel taunts, but family? If it was seen, it was never spoken of.

At the time, with no diagnosis to explain any of it, it was a grotesque burden to carry. That face, yes. My skeletal frame. My inability to build muscles, or to develop a manly form, standing tall, self-confident and strong. Hard to carry because the explanation of all around me was that if only I would stop being so lazy I could fix all of that.

I suppose it’s no surprise that in the end I looked inward, and satisfied myself with fantasies, no matter how preposterous and implausible. And so was it in this crucible that all of those misunderstandings and erroneous recollections were forged? Were they nothing but the rendering of my imagination: an insignificant passing comment turned into a thesis on my whole being? Laughter between friends transformed into a stinging assault?

So it is that I now doubt all things: every interaction, every emotion once felt, every recollection, every strongly held belief. Was it all the product of cognitive dysfunction, undiagnosed for another decade, and not properly understood for another two? In short, do I just have to cross out all of my understandings of the past? To start again?