How a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity Make Grief Harder

by

I’m going to try to explain how a photographic memory and high sensitivity make grief harder in this post. It’s therapy for me as much as a hope that it ministers to you if you are grieving this season.

How a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity Make Grief Harder

It’s no secret that grief is hard. The American culture isn’t comfortable with grief, so we haven’t learned to handle it well. In this hard, hard year of divorce recovery and betrayal trauma, I’ve been learning more about grief than I ever wanted to learn. And, I’ve learned that my photographic memory and high sensitivity make grief harder for me than it is for many other people.

My photographic memory is both a blessing and a curse. My first memory is from when I was only sixteen months old. I have a full five-sensory catalog of the moment in the February 1979 blizzard, when I was looking out on the white world and worrying about my daddy out in the cold. I have many thousands more photographic memories in rich detail from that time onward, particularly regarding emotionally charged moments.

My high sensitivity is also a blessing and a curse. The highs are higher, and the lows are definitely lower. But both traits make me a much better artist, writer, and speaker than I would be without them. Still, in this second round of grief of the original trauma, they make things much, much harder.

How a photographic memory and high sensitivity make grief harder: encouragement for you. #encouragement #grief #hsp #photographicmemory Click To Tweet

A Story of How a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity Make Grief Harder

It’s easiest for me to tell you how my grief is harder with these things by taking you through a thought and feeling thread I experienced this morning. The details are highly personal, but I share them not to vilify anyone. Instead, I want to paint the most vivid picture of how grief feels to a person with both high sensitivity and a photographic memory. Here goes.

On Twitter, I saw a video by Karl Kohlhase, a talented musician who I enjoy following.

This is my favorite Christmas hymn. As God often does, he used music to pluck the strings of my high sensitivity to stir my memory and lead me in a Sunday morning journey of grief.

Through this instrumental music, I was whisked back to nursing homes and hospitals in the late 1990’s where I played Christmas music with my mom – she on harp, me on flute.  This relationship is now destroyed due to narcissistic abuse that reared its ugly head this year, because my family has betrayed me and sided with my ex.

Then the memory photos of last December 25 played in sequence in my mind:

The plastic container of nuts

On Christmas morning, I saw he had mixed hazelnuts into the walnuts and curiously placed the hazelnut package face up on the surface. Tiptoeing on eggshells, knowing a blowup was possible, I cautiously asked him, “Why did you mix the nuts together?” He gaslighted me as he had so many times before: “I didn’t” – and his tone held a clear undercurrent of contempt. So I dropped the issue, but felt so discouraged that emotional abuse was present even on the holiday.

Playing a quarters game

After lunch at his family’s house, we played a dice game with quarters. He was seated at one end of the table, I at the other. As we played, I studied him – all the ways he was beautiful to me, even though he had hurt me so very much for so very long. He either didn’t know I was looking at him or chose not to look back at me. But in that moment, I loved him, though I knew our time in his presence was winding down. Soon he would join his friends to drink, like he did every single afternoon, every single day of the year. I held back my tears because addiction was the invisible guest sitting at the table with us.

The white flower in my garden

At home that afternoon, after he left to go to the bar, I went to the garden to cheer myself. I was surprised to see a single white bloom on my creeping phlox – a little gift from God, a sign of hope, a miniature winter miracle. Outdoor flowers aren’t supposed to bloom in December in Missouri, but that one did, and God made sure I saw it. I celebrated it as a Christmas gift of beauty in my sorrow. It is still a gift to me a year later, because God lovingly gave it to me before I knew the devastating trauma that was only a few weeks away.

This morning, the knife of grief twisted as these pictures drifted through my mind. This morning, he’s laying in the arms of the woman that broke up our marriage, not 100 yards from where I write now. In fact, he most certainly saw her working at the bar last December 25, while I was standing in the garden and discovering the miracle white flower.

Outdoor flowers aren't supposed to bloom in December in Missouri, but that one did, and God made sure I saw it. #hope #grief #highlysensitive Click To Tweet

The Blessings and Curses of Grief

Not only are a photographic memory and high sensitivity both blessings and curses, but grief is too. Ever since he left in January, grief has been a constant companion. I realize now that I’ve been grieving all my life on a low level as a child of divorce and a victim of emotional abuse. But this year, grief came out into the open and took center stage.

Grief has often felt like a curse. It rises up whenever it wants without asking my permission. Grief takes a moment of beauty, like Karl’s lovely song, and suddenly twists it into something painful. It overwhelms, debilitates, and paralyzes. Grief steals – many days, I have been unable to work this year due to its relentless demands. If you’re not numbing it with something, grief roams around, barging into spaces of your heart you didn’t even know existed.

But grief is also a blessing. Without its channels of denial, anger, bargaining, and sadness, I would have surely experienced a total mental breakdown this year. It has connected me to God in new ways through my rants and wailing. I’ve started to understand Jesus’ suffering in new ways, and have gained more insight into the stories of Job, Joseph, and David. Though I often cannot abide grief’s presence, I wouldn’t want to live without it, truth be told.

Grief can be both a curse and a blessing, especially if you are highly sensitive or have a photographic memory. #griefjourney #encouragement #hope Click To Tweet

How I’m Handling the Grief that is Harder with a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity

Well-meaning people have said things like this to me: “It’s almost been a year. It’s time to move on. Just stop thinking about it. You can’t let it bother you.” I know they are trying to help, but this advice doesn’t help at all when I have unbidden memories pop up in my mind several times daily due to my photographic memory and high sensitivity. I can’t prevent those images and memories from passing through my brain, nor ignore the deep feelings tied to each one. Perhaps someone without high sensitivity or a photographic memory could do this, or do this better, but I simply can’t due to how I’m wired.

The thing that makes the most sense is what my counselor told me: “You need to feel whatever you want to feel as long as you need to feel it. Just don’t get stuck. Here’s the three-step process: Name it, process it, and let it go.”

For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief.

Ecclesiastes 1:18 NIV

This morning, after watching Karl’s video, this is what I did to process my grief. I cried and cried, out loud, rocking back and forth like a baby. I let the photos go through my mind one by one as the tears continued to fall. I’ve learned that you must ride that grief wave, because though it hurts like a beast, relief arrives within a few minutes if you let it flow.

While wiping tears and snot from my face, I remembered this truth: God was right there with me in those moments captured by my photographic memory and high sensitivity. In his sovereignty, he has an even more detailed record of everything that happened in those moments. He could see the future trauma of this year in those moments, but he also sees the hope and new story of 2023 and beyond which I can’t even make out right now.

You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?

Psalm 56:8 ESV

As I process those photographic memories and sensitive feelings, I remember that new memories are available. One awful truth I’ve discovered this year is that every single Christmas memory I ever had is tied to family relationships that are now broken, some beyond repair. However, as sad as that is, I can make new memories with my children, my sons’ girlfriends, and my dogs, all of whom bring me nothing but joy. That is where my hope lies, and that is where I must place my focus as often as possible.

I've learned that you must ride the grief wave, because though it hurts like a beast, relief arrives within a few minutes if you let it flow. #grief #grieving #griefjourney Click To Tweet

If You Have a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity

If you have a photographic memory and high sensitivity, you are not alone. We may be rare individuals, but we are most certainly loved and treasured by God. He knows that grief might be harder for us, and will probably take us longer to process.

We must embrace grief as a gift, just as we must embrace our photographic memory and high sensitivity as gifts. They make us deep wells of beauty, life, and wonder for those who appreciate what we offer to the world. Don’t let grief steal the magnificence of the way God made you. Take as long as you need to process your sorrow, and remember that God is with you. Reach out to a counselor for help like I’m doing, and surround yourself with people who affirm and validate you.

Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.
Psalm 30:5b NIV

Remember that grief is for a season, but your photographic memory and high sensitivity are gifts that will last a lifetime. You’ve been given more than the average person. This is both a burden and a privilege, but Jesus will help you invest these gifts for the greater good. Share your deep insight and wonderful perspective with the world, even while you are grieving. In this way, you’ll be a great blessing to others, and God will help you turn your grief into something beautiful that no one can destroy.

The photo of my woods directly above is from sunset on Dec. 25, 2021. The dark winter days were already getting a bit shorter post-solstice. The light wasn’t bright, but it was present. The photo at the top of this page displays the colorful sunset two days after my ex left us. These photos remind me that God was with me on those days that were so very hard – days when grief was rising to the surface.

I pray that if you are grieving, you’ll look to the light that God provides. The light he’s shining in your memory storage and through your sensitivity. I pray that you’ll glimpse the light at the other side of your grief tunnel, and on the other side of each grief wave you must ride. Jesus is standing there, already waiting for you, holding out his hand in love, understanding, and affirmation.

I pray that you'll glimpse the light at the other side of your grief tunnel, and on the other side of each grief wave you must ride. #encouragement #grief #hsp #photographicmemory Click To Tweet

How a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity Make Grief Harder

If you liked this post, I would appreciate your shares on social media!

How a Photographic Memory and High Sensitivity Make Grief Harder may be linked up at these linkups.

If you make a purchase through the provided links, I receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. Thank you in advance for supporting my writing ministry!

I send my weekly newsletter Tea on Tuesdays at 3:00 p.m. Central time every Tuesday.  I write an exclusive devotion for you each week that I share with you first.

To receive the newsletter, please subscribe below. I can’t wait to share personally with you each week!

Want to know more about me before you sign up? You can read my story here and learn more about my books here. By signing up, you are agreeing to the terms of my privacy policy.