It made me sick to my stomach every time. Every. Time. The way these people would give up everything, a lifetime of mental gains just to avoid a little discomfort.
They lost everything the second they walked through that whitewashed door that hung almost teasingly beside the reception desk. The temptation was too great, I suppose. To erase pain, to forget losses, to lose the weight of years of struggle was the ultimate Fountain of Youth.
But they didn’t just lose their memories – that’s what killed me. There was no safe way to isolate one cognitive connection from another. Years of life lessons, hours of effortful struggle to learn something new, all gone. Sometimes even the most basic rudimentary knowledge would be lost in the process. It was the worst kind of brain injury because it was self-inflicted.
I watched one woman with a PhD walk out of that office only to lose her job the very next day. She couldn’t intelligently pen a research paper anymore, didn’t even fully understand what she was doing at the university. The power of habit got her to work the day after her “disinfection,” and her inability to remember the reason for it got her permanently home.
That’s when I quit. I quit and I started a blog. I wanted to fight it, to scream at the world, to tell them to stop torturing themselves this way. It was the ultimate form of self-mutilation. I protested, I wrote angry comments all over the posts of BrainScrub’s blog without any concern for the fact that I was a former employee and in danger of legal retribution. I didn’t care. I just wanted all of it to end. I wanted to stop seeing it, hearing about it, remembering it. I wanted social ethics back.
I wanted my sister back.