The Checklist and the Toothbrush

I packed three backup outfits for a weekend trip last month. Colour-coded packing list. Snacks in separate ziplock bags, labelled by type, because of course. I left two hours early for a one-hour drive.

Forgot my toothbrush. And my medication. And to lock the front door.

I don’t even know what to do with this anymore.

The packing list was beautiful. I spent forty minutes on it. Cross-referenced the weather forecast. Checked what the hotel had so I wouldn’t double up on shampoo. And then I walked out of the house without the one thing that keeps my brain working, because apparently that part of my brain had clocked off for the day.

People see the list. They see the ziplock bags. They think I’m someone who has her life sorted. They don’t see me in a petrol station car park at 10pm trying to remember if I left the straightener on. I didn’t even use the straightener. Doesn’t matter. My brain has decided this is now the only thing it can think about.

The thing that gets me is I can’t explain it to anyone without sounding like I’m making it up. “I’m very organised but I also forget everything” just sounds like a contradiction. And I get it. It sounds like one to me too. But it’s Tuesday and I’ve already reorganised my entire desk and also lost my phone while it was in my hand, so.

The other thing

There’s this other thing that happens and I don’t know if it’s connected or if it’s a separate disaster.

Put me in a situation where I have a role and I’m fine. If I’m the one who organised the dinner, I can talk to anyone. If it’s my turn to present something, grand. But if I’m just… there? In a group where nobody specifically asked me to speak? I will sit with my hands in my lap for an hour and leave without saying a word. And then in the car I’ll think of eleven things I should have said.

I used to think this was shyness. It’s not shyness. Shy people want to speak but feel nervous. I want to speak but I’m waiting for permission that nobody is going to give because normal people don’t need permission to join a conversation. They just do it. I have watched them do it my whole life and I still don’t know how.

What I do now

I keep duplicates of everything that matters. There’s a note on my front door that says “keys, meds, lock.” I set phone alarms for things most adults just remember. It’s not elegant. None of it is elegant.

But I’ve stopped apologising for it, mostly. Some days the list works and everything goes right. Some days I drive to the post office without the thing I’m posting. Last week both of those happened before lunch.

I don’t have a neat ending for this. The checklist helps. The toothbrush is still a coin flip.