A close relative with extreme kidney disease once said to me "we're all born with our bag of hammers, and this is mine."

He was an inspiration, really, and I have always looked up to him. How he struggled and how gracious he was, even at the end, and how he loved life: a true mentor. And through all his victories and all his setbacks he was, of course, absolutely right: we are all given something that challenges our spiritual constitution, that makes us stronger…even if kills us.

My problem, among others, is that I don't remember things. And not just little things like dentist appointments, names at parties or bank balances. I mean big things, important things, like where I went to school, complete friendships, books I've read, vacations I've taken and journeys I have taken. In fact, there are whole years, even decades, of which I have no recollection. It's just gone, not there, vacant: as if it never was. I am, from a memory point of view, the Invisible Woman.

And I have to say it's made life difficult. Interesting, but difficult.

I know what you're thinking. Childhood trauma, maybe a rare sleep disorder…perhaps a simple blow to the head could explain it. Some of that, unfortunately, is true. My mind, in its infinite wisdom, has allowed me to forget most of the painful events of my early childhood. And, as any survivor of extreme physical abuse will tell you, the talent of forgetting is a gift. Forgetting, you see, has saved many abused children from experiencing the truly horrible. I, however, would go one step further, and claim that the capacity, in moments of abject terror, to leave the body behind, block out severe pain and then, thankfully, mercifully forget…is, in itself, proof that God exists.

Who else would have so deeply encoded this ability into our brains? Certainly, nature has no vested interest in our survival. After the hunt, when a small animal is finally caught and then systematically devoured, a kind of trance-state takes over. There is no struggling, no horror, no pain…just a kind of glazed over and far away peace. And then, in a split second, the deepest part of the self simply retreats and watches from above. This withdrawal, this graceful vacating, happens in jungles and forests and savannas all across the globe. It is a function of the natural psyche and it is common to all species.

It has always been my experience, however, that nature has no compassion. As a Canadian I know that when lost in a winter wasteland, in the midst of a blizzard, the land doesn't care…it will just kill you. No, nature has no reason to care. God did this.

And, over the years, I have come to understand that there is a truly remarkable by-product of this blessing of forgetfulness. The mind compensates, the intuition expands and the senses deepen. Forgetting, it would seem, is the precursor to psychic development.

At a party, I may not remember your name but I can clearly tell you what your spiritual mission is in life, where you abandoned your own grace and when you last felt loved. As a psychic I can see major events in your mind, feel them unfold, and then relate them back to you like some sort of otherworldly reporter. Without meaning to, I can see your motives, understand your actions and comprehend your secrets. This survival mechanism is the only positive outcome of childhood trauma: the ability, in the blink of an eye, to take in huge amounts of information and interpret the true essence of any situation.

This is my bag of hammers.