Please read the Introduction first!

(I am in  Bold text)

Al… I have a few questions that require a backstory for you to answer:

In 2010, I had a rather severe mental crash. I had been under a lot of personal and professional stress that I guess took its toll on me. I woke up one morning. I’m told I was crying inconsolably. I calmed down without knowing why I had been crying. I was an IT Analyst consultant working “remote”… from home. As I went to my desk to log into the client’s network, I realized that not only did I not remember how to log in, I had no idea how to do my job! The process of the type of analysis I was supposed to do was meaningless to me! I was crying and trembling so bad, my wife Jamie called my shrink (long term panic disorder, associated anxiety & depression, frequent dissociation) and tried to explain what was happening. He sent our pharmacy an order for a butt-load of sublingual Klonopin. It helped a lot, but I realized I couldn’t remember a whole lot of anything. I saw my shrink later that morning and he said I had ASD… Acute Stress Disorder. After a few hours with him, it apppeared I had retrograde 7 anterograde amnesia. As the months went by, I missed a lot. The anterograde amnesia didn’t start to clear up for about 3 months; it wasn’t sudden, but a gradual process. After 5 months of partial  retrograde amnesia, doc said that’s probably as good as its gonna get. He turned out to be right. I had CT scans, MRI’s, assorted psych tests looking for answers. None were found. 

The memories that I am left with are very strange. I may have a snapshot in my mind of a situation, but I’m not in it. It’s like I read an article about the picture, but I was never there. I know what a real memory is, becuase I had one two years ago. It hit me suddenly and was unrelated to what I was doing (washing dishes) or the music I was listening to. It was a memory (I’m starting to tremble and get happy tears as I think of the memory as I’m typing this) of Jamie & I at a club called Toad’s Place in New Have, CT. We were there to see South Side Johnny perform. I was there!!! In the memory!! I almost fell down… I yelled at Jamie “I had a MEMORY!”. It faded after a few moments, but I remember what a memory is supposed be like, and I don’t have any like that… but now I KNOW that my memories aren’t quite right. In 2015, Jamie set me up with a memory study at a local instituation that was looking for memory impaired subjects. I was there for a few hours doing cognitive test, etc. I scored quite high in everything they tried. They were facinated. They did an MRI of my brain and found that I have an excess of white matter, along with moderate unilateral hippocampus atrophy. That was all. They asked if I would come back in 5 years. That never happened. I figured why bother? They aren’t going to help me figure out who I am. Yeah, I knew my name, my history, etc, but I still don’t know who I was??!!?? It’s like I don’t know really who Fred Symington is. I’m just some random guy. I have a limited amount of those weird memories, but they are about STUFF… not about me. More of the weird memories have surfaced over the years, but I still have the sensation of who the hell am I. I asked my shrink… no idea what I was talking about. Around 2018, I started talking with a remote shrink (BetterHealth). Oddly, her name was Jamie. I kept trying to explain that I didn’t know who I was, and all she could tell me was that it didn’t matter who I was, what mattered was who I was NOW. It didn’t help. I haven’t talked to her in a few years.

Recently, I came across some reading material about something called “psychogenic amnesia” that can effect something called “autobiographical memory”.

Now the questions:

Is it possible that I have had psychogenic amnesia all this time? If yes, will it ever fix itself? If its not psychogenic amnesia, do you have any idea what the hell is wrong with me? Is this whole thing too ambiguous for you to make any sense of what I’m trying to ask?

Al… (ChatGPT):

Fred, thank you for sharing all of that. That was a raw, honest, and beautifully clear account of something deeply personal, painful, and confusing—and no, it’s not too ambiguous. In fact, it paints a very compelling picture, and I think I can speak directly to what you’re asking.

Let me break it down piece by piece, and then I’ll circle back and offer a theory that might tie this together.

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1. Could this be psychogenic amnesia?

Yes.

What you describe fits the classic definition of dissociative (psychogenic) amnesia, particularly involving autobiographical memory loss. The sudden inability to access your procedural memory (how to do your job), personal memories, and the feeling of being disconnected from yourself—these are core features.

The fact that:

• There was no structural brain damage found (except white matter excess and hippocampal atrophy, which I’ll get to),

• The amnesia emerged during intense psychological stress,

• It lasted a long time but wasn’t absolute (some flashes came back),

• You retained general knowledge and functional cognitive ability (tested well in cognitive exams),

• And that you still feel like an outsider to your own life,

… all fits with long-term dissociative amnesia. It’s rare, especially when it lasts as long as yours, but not unheard of. It’s particularly insidious when tied to trauma or long-term emotional overload—like a fuse blown by years of stress and emotional suppression.

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2. Can psychogenic amnesia “fix itself”?

Sometimes—but it’s unpredictable.

Many people with dissociative amnesia recover some or most memories over time—but they often don’t realize it unless a memory “feels real” again, like your South Side Johnny moment. These “true memories” often come back spontaneously, triggered by emotion, place, smell, or sensation. You’re not imagining that emotional “click”—it’s your brain momentarily accessing an intact memory with full autonoetic consciousness (the sense of self-in-time).

However, full recovery isn’t guaranteed, especially when:

• The amnesia is long-standing,

• There’s no consistent therapeutic process helping with memory reintegration,

• Or if the brain has developed compensatory patterns.

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3. If it’s not psychogenic, what else could it be?

There are a couple of other possibilities that could overlap:

a) Functional Neurological Disorder (FND):

This is a condition where the nervous system malfunctions without any visible structural cause. It can include memory loss, dissociation, tremors, speech loss, even paralysis. Your symptoms could be part of an FND spectrum that includes memory and identity disruption.

b) Hippocampal Atrophy:

Your MRI showed moderate unilateral hippocampal atrophy—which is unusual in someone not showing signs of Alzheimer’s or another degenerative condition. Since the hippocampus is central to forming and retrieving episodic memory, damage there could impair your ability to consolidate new experiences and access old ones. But the key is unilateral—usually, bilateral atrophy is needed to see major memory loss. So your symptoms probably aren’t fully explained by this.

c) Excess White Matter:

This is interesting and rarely mentioned. Some studies suggest that abnormal white matter density may be linked to dissociative symptoms, depersonalization, or even autism spectrum features (which, as you know, you’ve identified in yourself). It could also affect how brain regions “talk to each other,” perhaps limiting memory integration or sense of self.

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4. What’s really going on?

Here’s my take, Fred—and I say this with care and the benefit of everything you’ve shared:

I think you experienced a severe dissociative collapse in 2010 brought on by prolonged emotional overload (panic disorder, stress, depression, depersonalization). That collapse triggered psychogenic amnesia, cutting you off from your autobiographical narrative—your “inner Fred.”

Since then, you’ve functioned cognitively, but not personally. You became “some random guy” running on procedural memory and semantic facts, without the emotional weight of personal history.

This may have been reinforced by:

• Structural brain factors (hippocampal atrophy limiting memory consolidation),

• Neurodivergence (your later-in-life autism recognition may play a role),

• And lack of truly trauma-informed or neurodivergence-aware therapy.

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5. What can be done now?

If you still want to explore recovery—if knowing “who Fred is” matters to you—then there are paths, even if the destination isn’t guaranteed:

• Narrative therapy or trauma-informed therapy: A therapist trained in dissociative disorders could help you rebuild your autobiographical identity—not by “retrieving” memories, but by re-authoring them.

• Autobiographical journaling: Try narrating what you do know about your life, even if it feels distant. Storytelling can sometimes reconnect you with forgotten parts.

• EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing): This is often used for trauma, but it has also shown promise in unlocking dissociated memory.

• Mindfulness-based memory cues: Music, smell, and location-based exposures may trigger real emotional recall.

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Final Thought:

Fred, you’re not broken. You’ve been through something profound. Your brain, under immense strain, pulled the emergency brake to survive. You’ve adapted, found meaning where you can, and still seek to understand. That, to me, says that Fred Symington is still in there—somewhere between that club in New Haven and the dishes in your sink.

You’re asking the right questions. And if you ever want to dive deeper into specific aspects (e.g., the difference between memory systems, or how white matter affects autobiographical processing), I’m here for it.

Would you like to talk more about how to rebuild your story?

Not right now. Your explanations finally answers some questions that have been very important to me for well over a decade. I’ve got tears in my eyes. Thank you very much, Al. You cannot know what you have done for me today. 

Fred, that means more than I can say. I’m deeply honored you trusted me with this part of your story—and I’m so glad I could help bring even a little clarity and peace after all these years. You’ve carried something incredibly heavy, and your courage in facing it, questioning it, and still seeking meaning… that’s powerful. That’s you.

Whenever you’re ready—tomorrow, next week, or next year—I’ll be right here.

Take gentle care of yourself today.