Hope A 7/12/22 Hope A 7/12/22

One Year

Last week, I met with an online group I will be working with for the next six months. In my introduction, I did not tell them I am recovering from a head injury. It was the first time I did not disclose this since it happened.. Today, with the same group, I nearly cried when I lost my train of thought.

Peaks and valleys, healing isn't linear, etc etc etc.

Describing how something is does not lessen the frustration of it.

One year ago, I was hit in the back of the head in an impossible way, a tiny bump that did not cause me to fall over or black out. I took a moment and continued my job. The next day, angry and forgetful, I drove to work. I loaded my van with deliveries, called my co-worker the wrong name, polled my other co-workers about their head bumps, and then realized I needed to go to the doctor. I never drove for that company again. For a few months, I hardly drove at all.

the accidental photo of my last day as a delivery driver. You can't tell, but I am already feeling the symptoms of the concussion that is still healing.

One year ago, I had a long day at work and went home angry and confused. I remained angry and confused for months. I thought I was mad at dispatch and traffic-- I might've been mad at dispatch and traffic but also automated phone menus and everything else. I am still never sure what makes me angry. I sometimes still get angry.

One year ago, I was supposed to go on vacation, camp, see an old friend and celebrate my birthday. Instead, I floated in the pool in my backyard, peaceful and cool and wanting quiet as if it were water and I was always thirsty.

Today I swam twice in a small lake to try and clear my fuzzy, headached brain. I am healing. Also I am tired.

One of my therapists asked me if I had time to grieve who I was but I am still figuring out who I am now. I am still assessing losses. I have no reliable account of who I was versus who I am now.

I am house sitting alone on a lake with a dog who is cranky about my appearance and two cats who seem to like me. There are large windows over the lake and it seems possible to watch the sun set and rise though I know I can hardly see more than 90 degrees of sky. The dog and I watch boaters and deer out the window. In the afternoons, he lays in the sun while I swim. Tomorrow, I will bake a cake for my partner's birthday. One year ago, I put a spirograph set and a note in his lunch, which he brought to the urgent care when I called him hours later to say I could not drive home.

One year.

If you know me at all you know I love finding beautiful places to swim, ice cream, and my birthday. I love my friends and long road trips. I tell strangers that I am recovering from a head injury because it is nebulous; I cannot touch the boundaries of it. I have tried and tried to say: this I cannot do, but this I can. But it changes. Every day. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes I write and run and laugh and plan and plan and plan and some days there is a dull ache at the back of my head, buzzing through all my conversations. I have it now. I take medicine and sleep and stretch and strengthen and debate how much to tell strangers. I am self-conscious, I wonder if it sounds self-important to disclose this. Sometimes I use the wrong words, sometimes I cannot find things I know in the pockets of my brain. I know that no matter how I speak, how smoothly the words leave me, I know there is a struggle to get them out.