What if I told you the only way for you to survive is to sit in a dark, silent room with no physical or emotional contact every day for about three months? Would you do it?
You’re not allowed to think, speak, move, or do anything. No light, no sound, no laughter, no human contact, no books, no movies, no electronics, no source of entertainment. Just you in a room, alone, with seemingly no reason to live. I always used to believe that no one can take away what’s in your mind. I was wrong.
I’m the volleyball court, in the middle of a point. Something happened. I’m not in the game anymore. Why is everyone around me? Why are they asking me to recite the months backward? Wait, what day is it? Why are they asking me if I know who the president is? What is going on?
What is going on? Now, that’s a question I was going to get used to.
Being mindful is something I was never good at doing, but it only got worse after the accident. There is a negative stigma associated with Post Concussion Syndrome.
If you can't see it, it's not real.
The truth is, it felt like every time I tried to think about anything, I was looking at the world through a small peephole. But the worst part about a traumatic brain injury is that your brain literally cannot recognize that there is a problem. You lose control of yourself. You end up having to go through treatment after treatment based on the judgment of others. Hearing the people I loved the most tell me I needed help only sent me spinning further down the spiral of confusion. I started to blame myself. “This isn’t about my concussion, is it? I’m fine. I’m just not good enough for you.” Eventually, I began to think I’d never be good enough for them, or anyone, for that matter. I got angry at the people closest to me for making me question my self-worth until I had none left.
I was admitted to Johns Hopkins Hospital, where I attended concussion treatment and testing biweekly. In treatment, they would ask me, “How do you feel today on a scale of 1-10? Ten being the best you’ve ever felt.” To which I would always reply, “I don’t know.” When it comes to a physical injury, you are able to communicate how you feel. But your feelings are controlled and expressed through your brain. Without a functional brain, how do you know how you feel? How do you know anything?
The worst part of recovery was walking into Johns Hopkins Hospital and being judged by other patients. I looked fine. Yet I still got stares from patients in wheelchairs and mothers whose small children had eye patches on. Why is she even here? She’s probably here to pick up an Adderall prescription before she goes to college. I felt guilty that I dared step foot in that building. I didn’t belong with the well, and I didn’t belong with the sick. It didn’t matter if I was locked up in that dark room or roaming around searching for help, I was alone.
My “friends” started dropping like flies. Some even started blaming me for being a bad friend:
“You’ve been MIA lately… I needed you last week and you weren’t there for me.”
“Hey. You’ve been acting really weird lately.”
“I get that you have a concussion, but the least you could do is text me on my birthday.”
These texts began piling up my cell phone that was confiscated from me until I was “better.” I wanted to badly to say: I’m sorry, I just don’t even know what day it is. I wanted to apologize to everyone, but I didn’t know what I was apologizing for. Am I apologizing for who I am? Is this who I am now?
I wanted to ask them not to be frustrated with me. I wanted to explain that I didn’t want to be this way. But I couldn’t formulate the words because my brain didn’t know what was wrong at the time. So I got angry. I was angry at others for not understanding. I was angry at myself for not being “better” enough for anyone. I was angry at the birds for chirping happily. Why are they so happy? This world isn’t a happy place. I was angry at the world.
I met someone who had experienced a similar mental disability to mine. When I was allowed out again, we met up every day at the local coffee shop, as if to remind ourselves: Hey, we made it through today. I promise I’ll make it back to this spot tomorrow if you do. But that didn’t take away the pain. I felt pain when I heard laughter outside my window. Laughter used to be a part of my life, I thought. How does one cope with constant mental pain? First, I had to somehow make my brain recognize that something was wrong.
“I’m fine.” My mother followed me to the bathroom because I forgot to turn off the faucet again.
“I’m fine.” Sorry, if you want to see her, you’ll have to come back Monday through Friday during visiting hours.
“I’m fine.” The doctors say her brain isn’t healing properly. This is one of the most severe concussions they’ve ever seen.
“I’m fine.” She needs physical therapy. She can’t stand on one foot.
“I’m fine.” People stopped asking what was wrong with me and accepting who I had become.
“I’m fine.” Are you sure you don’t want to take a gap year? There are only a handful of universities still accepting students this late in the academic year.
Perhaps the most difficult part about this situation was letting down the people I loved. I saw it in their eyes that when they looked at me, they longed to communicate with me, not this person who had taken over my body. Frustration built up in my veins until I couldn’t take it anymore. These people don’t even love me. I see the way they’re looking at me. I’ve failed them. I don’t deserve to live.
One person changed all of that. They made me feel safe in realizing there was a problem. How could I overcome something I didn’t acknowledge to be real? I didn’t know if someone would catch me if I fell after months of feeling as if I was alone. But it turned out I wasn’t alone all along.
People don’t often focus on the aftermath of a traumatic brain injury, but there is a phenomenon called Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG) that explains why we overcome times of adversity and reach new levels of understanding of the world and our individual places in it. A couple years ago I felt as though I served no purpose on this earth, but sometimes, we must feel lost in order to find ourselves.
I want to remind anyone reading this article that not all disabilities are visible. A broken brain is not any less of an injury than a broken bone, just because it is internal. The pain disguises itself in ways that may do not understand. Without the support of people who stuck by my side when I wasn’t myself, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I may still miss a few pieces to the puzzle of my brain due to permanent damage, but I made it to where I am now, and I couldn’t be happier.
#IDefeatedMyConcussion
