I just learned about the movie Marwencol. Check out the trailer video and visit the site. Fascinating.
This kind of reminds me of my own retreat from the rest of the world, over the course of my life. Although my own withdrawal from the world where I got hurt on a regular basis was not nearly as labor intensive as Marwencol, it was in fact my own private Idaho. It was a place where I could pull back and experience my own life on my own terms without danger of being hurt or mistreated or dismissed. I have that place boxed up in tens of journals I’ve kept over the years, and stashed on bookshelves filled with subjects of “study” that never came to anything.
My own removal from the world started when I was around seven or eight years old. And it stopped 35 years later. I can’t wait to see this movie, Marwencol — I’d like to see how someone else did it. And how it turned out for them.
It makes me wonder how many people are actually walking around with one foot in one world and one foot in the other.
I had a dream about my diagnostic neuropsych last night. It was a really cool dream. We were trying — as usual — to find time on our calendars to schedule our next session, and we kept getting our wires crossed and missing each other when were trying to connect… and running into each other, when one or both of us didn’t have our schedule on hand. It was actually a really nice dream, because they were very kind to me during all of it, and the weather during the dream was sunny and bright and mild (quite unlike what it’s been like in real life for the past six weeks). And even when we were getting our wires crossed, there was still an element of humanity and civility to our interactions that was, well, civilized. It was breath of fresh air, in the midst of my dreamworld confusion. I woke up feeling a bit frustrated, but also very soothed.
I think I’m surprising both my neuropsychologists with my uncanny ability to not only get by in the world, but to also thrive. My diagnostic neuropsych says my ability to adapt and improve is “phenomenal” and they’re openly amazed at my ability to turn around wretched circumstances and come out on top. My therapeutic neuropsych is still handling me with proverbial kid gloves, taking it slow and trying (often in vain) to temper my eagerness to push my limits in life. Slowly but surely, they’re getting a clearer and clearer view of how capable I am of taking care of myself in some respects, while in others I’m wandering around in the dark. This post (however anonymous it may be… they may never read it) is dedicated to both of them.
I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about the impact that TBI has had on my life over the years. I’ve also been thinking a lot about the ways in which it has not had an impact, or in some cases actually led to experiences and successes I might have never pursued, were I not neurologically compromised.
- If I had been better able to interact with others and communicate — and understand what was being said to me — I might not have pissed off and alienated the editors I worked with… and I’d be a published author by now. I might not have had to learn how to build web pages to put my writing online.
- If I had been better able to handle heavy-duty job responsibilities, I might still be in middle-management (or even upper management), making okay money and having no life. I probably never would have learned to code (and might have resisted learning to use a computer till late in the game), and I may never have thought of going into the high-paying software business, where work-life balance is more precarious, but also more “customizable”.
- If I had been better at risk assessment, I might never have traveled and moved around as much as I have. I probably would have “known better” and played it safe, never seeing the outside of my home state, let alone the USA. I probably never would have considered living abroad, if I’d been able to make it just fine, here at home.
Funny, how that works. A lot of what I’ve done over the years, no “sane” person would do — I’ve taken big risks, personally and professionally, and I’ve probably been luckier than I’ve been smart, over the years. But long story short, it’s all turned out pretty damn’ well, and this morning, I’m sitting in my own study… in my own house… overlooking my own back yard in a gorgeous and very affluent part of the United States. I’ve got (somewhat dependable) cars that are paid for in the garage, I’ve got a kicker job, and I’ve got a spouse who loves me with all their heart sleeping in the master bedroom. I’ve got family who love me (as inscrutable and problematic as I may be at times), and I have friends who love, appreciate and support me. I’m not the richest (or even the most solvent) person on the planet, but I’m getting there. Even without the money thing all hammered out, I’m one of the richest people I know.
It’s Independence Day, so I suppose today would be a great time to talk about how I’ve managed to do so well for myself, even though I’m most definitely neurologically compromised. Despite no less than nine mild traumatic brain injuries (one assault, three falls, three car accidents, two sports concussions, and probably more injuries that I’ve completely forgotten and just took in stride — gotta get back in the game!), I’ve managed to really thrive in the world, taking things as they came and learning a lot as I went. I’ve had more near-disasters than I care to think about, I’ve had a number of brushes with mortal danger, and I’ve had to rebuild my life over again, more than once.
But in spite of all that, I’m happy, healthy, more or less whole, hale, and hearty. And I have been for years. I have issues. Of course I have issues – who doesn’t? I have experienced tremendous difficulty in navigating things that other people take for granted, and there have been plenty of times when I was flying blind. But for all that trouble, I’ve still managed to do well. When life gave me lemons, I made lemonade. And lemon meringue pie. And lemon drops. And I seasoned my cooking with lemon zest. Figuratively speaking, I’ve eaten and drunk a helluva lot of lemon-flavored stuff over the course of my life. Sometimes it was sweetened, more often, it wasn’t. But I took the bad with the good and did my best with it.
I’m not going to say my TBIs were “the best things that ever happened to me,” as I’ve heard others proclaim. That would be a lie, for they have made my life more complex and painfully awkward than I ever wished it would be. But I will say that my injuries have been a lot less logistically debilitating to me than a lot of people (including trained professionals) seem to think they’ve been — or should have been. And I believe the reason I have done increasingly well over the years, is, I never gave up. A whole lot of times that I messed up, I got a do-over… and I took another shot at what I screwed up the first time.
It’s true. A do-over makes the difference. All those times I mucked up what I was trying to do… I can’t even count them. I’ve messed up relationships, good jobs, simple Saturday chores, volunteer activities, money management, health concerns… you name it, I’ve probably made a huge mess of it, at some point or another. But as long as I got a second chance, it wasn’t the catastrophy it might or “should” have been.
Second chances are like my lifeblood. They’re the stuff that keep me going. People who know me say I’m too hard on myself, when I think that I’m going to mess something up when I first try it. But they haven’t walked in my shoes, and they haven’t seen what a terrible mess I’ve made of so many simple things.
Like the time I was jump-starting my car for the first time on my own. I’d seen it done lots of times by plenty of other people. I knew how you put the clamps on the battery terminals and let your car charge off the other running car. I’d even helped other people jump their cars lots and lots of times. But the first time I tried to jump-start my own car, I got the terminals mixed up, and sparks started to fly and the plastic around the handles started to melt, as the wires heated up to a bright glowing red. I grabbed a stick and managed to pull the cable handles off my battery before both batteries blew up, so no animals were harmed in the making of that movie. But things could have turned out worse, and we could have ended up with two busted-down cars, instead of one.
And like the time when I was putting together numbers for work, collecting all these performance stats to show upper management how well we were doing. This was, needless to say, a very important report. Well, I found a set of numbers that fit the criteria we were looking for, and I compiled this great-looking spreadsheet with graphs and everything that showed our performance over such-and-such a time. Everyone was pleased as punch with my work… until they saw that I’d pulled the wrong numbers from the wrong timeframe and the wrong servers. My end-product was fabulous, but it applied to an alternate universe. And my hours of work were for naught.
And like the time when I was making great progress on this website I was building. I did an awesome job at coding it up quickly and timing everything out so it would be ready to launch on schedule. The only problem was, I forgot to test it in this one browser that everybody knew was problematic. It had completely slipped my mind. And by the time I looked at the website in it and realized that stuff needed to change, I was starting to fall behind schedule. For someone in the web development business, this is just basic, fundamental stuff — you test in all browsers before you launch. But I’d forgotten. And I blew my deadline. And pissed off the project manager who had been so happy with my work — and had told everyone what a great job I was doing.
I can assure you, screwing up the first time around is not a foreign experience to me. But each of the times I’ve screwed up, I’ve learned a great deal. And frankly, I’ve learned more from my failures than from my successes. I just needed the chance to try again.
All I’ve really ever asked for, was a second chance. Seriously. I know I’m prone to make a mess of things on my “maiden voyages”. It’s just in my nature. I’m not being hard on myself. It’s objectively true. Ask anyone who has known me long enough to see me go down in flames… and they’ll confirm it. But they’ll also confirm that I have an uncanny ability to rise from the ashes of my own catastrophes, take my medicine, take my lumps, and climb back into the ring for another round. And when I get my head about me again and figure out what I did wrong, the first time through, I can adjust my performance to do the exact opposite… and come out shining far more brightly than many a person who gets it right the first time around.
When I look back on my life, I have to say the worst experiences and relationships and jobs and activities I’ve had, have been made that way by lack of a second chance. Sadly, my father is one of those people who has to have things done 100% correctly, the first time through — or else. And my mother has not always had the most patience with my flawed interpretations of her instructions. They got it honest — all my relatives and neighbors and other people in the area where I grew up were geared towards getting it right the first time, or else. They had no tolerance for messing up terribly, the first time through — especially by someone as ostensibly smart as I was. They just couldn’t see why I was so prone to screw-ups. Certainly, I must not have been paying close enough attention. Or I was lazy. Or I was weak. Or whatever.
What they just couldn’t see was that I was trying like crazy to get it right, the first time through. I was — I really was. But I didn’t have enough information about how to do it 100% right. Spoken instruction only went so far. Being shown things only went so far. I had to try my hand at things and find out what not to do, in order to find out what to avoid, the next time around. The times when I got a dry run to practice, I was more likely to succeed. But when I was tossed into the deep end, the first time through, I sank like a rock, as often as not. And there were far too many failures to list — and far too many occasions of people not thinking to give me another chance. If I screwed it up the first time through, what made me think I could get it right, the next time?
Thing of it was, I could get it right, the next time. In fact, the worse mess I made of my endeavor, the first time through, the greater the likelihood of me hitting a home run, the next time around. My very low tolerance for imperfection would never allow me to make the same mistakes twice. I just couldn’t do it. Unfortunately, too many people are not built that way, and they don’t realize that some of us are. They think that true achievers get one chance and one chance only to make their mark, and if you have to keep trying, it means you’re just a wanna-be poser whose prone to biting off more than they can chew.
Well, maybe I am a bit of a wanna-be, and maybe I do tend to bite off more than I can chew. But you know what? I’m driven. And I don’t give up. And if I keep trying, and if I keep learning from my screw-ups (which are so, so many), and I don’t give in to the criticisms of others (and myself), I can really make a difference in my own life and in the world. I can actually attain at least some of what I set out to achieve. And even if I manage to meet only 75% of my set goals, if I set my goals at 200% of what others expect me to be “reasonably” able to do, then I have a chance of achieving 150% of what others expect of me. So there.
And that to me is what true Independence is all about — knowing both your limits and your strengths and using them both to complement each other. I know I make a mess of things. I know I have a hard time with some pretty basic stuff, at times. I know I tend to overstep my bounds and over-reach. But I also know I’ve got this taproot of faith in cause-and-effect… this logical conviction that if I just keep going, feeling my way through, keeping an open mind and actively learning and putting what I learn into action… I will eventually get far beyond what anyone ever expected of me. And I will achieve nearly everything I have my heart set on. No matter what my brain may be capable of, I also have heart. And my mind — the sum total of my spirit and my brain-power and my instincts — will always keep striving for what is better, what is best, what is highest, what is … progress.
Yes, when it comes to getting things right, a do-over makes the difference. I may mess up the first time through, but a second chance makes everything better. It lets me redeem myself by getting it right the next time. It gives me the opportunity to salvage my experience by using the lessons I’ve learned to make right what I’ve done wrong. It lets me prove to myself that I’m not a total loser. It lets me prove to others that they can — ultimately — depend on me, if they just cut me a little slack and give me another chance. They simply need to resist the temptation to give up on me… understanding that I’ve got my limitations, and that I may need another shot, in order to get the task they’ve given me absolutely right, but I will not quit until I get some satisfactory results.
I can get it… I will get it. I just need to be given more chances to get it right.
My parents are coming to visit me next weekend,and I’ve been thinking a lot about my earlier injuries and how they affected my childhood. How they affected my development, how they affected my interactions with people, how they affected my future. When I was seven, I fell down a flight of stairs and was very dazed and confused and wasn’t able to talk. And when I was eight, I was hit in the head with a rock and knocked out for a while. (I tell that story here.)
In the ensuing years of my childhood and youth, I had more injuries — concussions and falls. It was not uncommon for me, while playing, to fall hard and/or hit my head and get up a little dazed and confused… but keep playing. Just keep playing.
Now, concussions alone could account for a lot of the problems I had when I was a kid — problems understanding what people were saying to me, problems with distractability, problems with temper outbursts, problems with getting really turned around and confused… lots and lots of mood and behavioral problems that my parents handled with faith and prayer and lots of structure, rather than pharmaceuticals.
In retrospect, I think it really helped, when I was young. The structure gave me a framework to live within, the faith gave me something bigger to hang onto, and prayer offered me a way to ask for help from a Higher Power when I couldn’t find the words or the means to ask for it from human beings. It was a pretty exacting way to live, though. My family was very religious, and my parents were very strict (at that time) about what was permitted and what was not… what was sinful and “worldly” and what they considered pleasing to the Lord.
But while that faith and prayer gave me a much-needed support system when I was young, when I entered my teen years, it backfired. As I grew older, I still had a hard time, cognitively and behaviorally speaking. The problem was, I wasn’t just having troubles at home, I was having troubles out in the world. Teen years are marked by increasing social activities outside the home, and I just didn’t do a very good job of handling myself. I was alternately shy… and openly rebellious. I was alternately a high achiever and a slacking ne’er do well. I did a lot of good and helpful things in my youth, including saving an elderly lady who was trapped when the open door of her car (it was not in park) rolled and pinned her leg to a very large object (I can’t remember what it was, but she was pinned, and the metal of the door cut into her leg — I can still recall the sight of the inside of her fleshy thigh cut open — I guess my brain selectively records images). But I also sold drugs and bought liquor underage and distributed it to friends. I wasn’t a big-time criminal, but my later youth was marked by a lot of the warning-sign activities of criminals in the making.
Jekyll and Hyde… or head injury? Given the number of injuries I’ve had over the years, and the fact that a lot of my rebellious and “alternative” behavior was directly connected with an internal storm of confusion and agitation and rage that never disappeared, only subsided a little, I think the latter applies.
Okay, so all that being said, I have been wondering a lot, lately, just how severely I was injured when I was 8. I was knocked out with a rock thrown by some kids who didn’t like my looks and had been taunting and teasing me and my sibling from a distance. We didn’t respond, and they started to throw rocks. My sibling wanted to leave, but I said “NO, we’re staying right here.” I still feel awful about it; they could have been injured, instead of me. But I was hard-headed and stubborn, and I didn’t want anyone to chase me away from doing what I was doing.
Anyway, after a number of rocks landed closer and closer to us, one clocked me on the head. I recall feeling a dull-sharp impact and thinking, “What was that…?” and then I went down.
The next thing I remember, I was looking up and my sibling was hovering over me, crying, with tears streaming down their face. I was woozy and wobbly and at first I wanted to stay and keep playing, but they were so upset, I realized I couldn’t keep us there. I was also not feeling so great, and they led me home to my parents, who had me lie down on the couch while they called a friend who was a nurse, to find out what to do. I didn’t want to do what they told me to — I didn’t want to lie down, I didn’t want to hold still, I wanted to either get up and move around or go to sleep. I remember trying to sleep, but they kept me awake. I seem to recall being really tired, but also kind of punchy and agitated and restless. Eventually, as I recall, after checking my eyes with a flashlight a number of times, they let me get up and move around. And my life went on.
When I think back on that time, it seems to me that it was a pretty serious deal – but I’m not sure how aware of it my parents were. Or anyone was, for that matter. And when I think back, I honestly can’t say how long I was knocked out for. I might have been out for a few seconds, a few minutes, even an hour or more. It’s impossible to say. My sibling can’t recall the event clearly, so I can only guess at how long it was.
And up till recently, I’ve been thinking I was out cold for a relatively short time. But it could have been longer. I can’t recall the kids who attacked us being in the field when I came to — I can’t recall how the light of the day was, and I’m not sure if my parents were concerned about my sibling and me being out longer than we should have been.
But to be accurate, there is a chance that I was knocked out for longer than a few minutes. It could have been much longer. And from what I understand, the length of unconciousness is an indicator of the severity of an injury, which can also be an indicator of long-term problems. Given the level of difficulty I had when I was a kid — particularly during and after 3rd grade… from that point on, life was one big obstacle course for me — I have to wonder if maybe I wasn’t injured worse than I thought I have been thinking I was.
I need to do some more research on this… It could be a good thing to learn. And I think it might help me talk to my parents about my childhood. Because despite learning a lot and putting a lot of things together over the past year and a half, I haven’t yet discussed my TBIs with them. I haven’t discussed them with anyone in my family. But next weekend, I think that’s going to change.
Figuring out how to talk to my parents about my childhood TBIs is actually one of the big action items on my plate, these days (in addition to working like a mad person to keep my job and keep up with my work… organizing my study in a way that helps me, not hinders me… clearing out old files and projects that were artifacts of TBI-induced agitation, rather than being something that would ever bear fruit… and tending to my marriage and home life). My folks have been saying for years that they can’t figure out what they did wrong to make me so unhappy when I was little. They can’t figure out why I took so many wrong turns. They can’t understand why I was so angry and rammy and difficult — what did they do wrong?
I have to tell them, it wasn’t them that caused the bulk of my many issues. It was TBIs. Getting hit on the head. Hard. And at an early enough age that it sheared and skewed the connections in my developing brain so it couldn’t develop “normally,” no matter what they tried. I have to tell them it wasn’t all their fault, and that all things considered, they actually helped more than they hurt.
For all their flaws, for all the things they might have done differently, my parents did create a home where I was able to develop habits of self-inspection and introspective reflection. They created a very structured and well-organized environment in which I could safely do things like paint and draw and write stories and express myself and learn things and be my own unique (and sometimes very weird) self. Certainly, it might have been helpful, if they had taken my shortcomings into consideration more and not overwhelmed me constantly with so much friggin’ input (my mother has always been a manic force of nature, God love her). But the fact that I’m still here, still standing, still able to keep motoring on, despite pain and agitation and confusion and generally feeling like I live my life in the dark and have to just bumble/stumble through a lot of things the first time, before I figure out how the heck to do stuff… Well, I have my parents to thank for that.
Even if my TBI at age 8 was more than mild — even if it was moderate — they raised me in a way that made it possible to keep going, keep moving, keep making my life the best that it could be.
And for that I am eternally grateful.
Now, I have to figure out a way to tell them, when they come to visit. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t.
Here’s what I remember:
I was about 8 years old and I was playing up at a field near my family’s house. I was with my younger sibling. The field lay right between two different neighborhoods, and we never went into the other neighborhood by ourselves. We rarely went there at all, period. We were playing about 50-100 feet from the entrance on our side of the field. The line of garages that flanked the alley on the other side of the field were behind us, and we were facing the direction that our one-way street went.
The field was bounded on the other side by a high (maybe 20-foot) chain link fence, and our side was the only “real” entrance to the area.
My sibling and I were there by ourselves for a little while, then two kids appeared on the other side of the field. They crawled under the bottom edge of the fence, slipping through a depression in the ground and looked over at us.
We looked over at them — I’m not sure if we called over to them and said hello. I’m not sure if we even acknowledged their presence. I suspect we didn’t. The kids weren’t supposed to be there — they had crawled under a fence that was built to keep them out, after all. As I recall, we decided to mind our own business and keep playing.
The kids called over to us a couple of times, but we ignored them and just kept playing. Then they started yelling at us — calling us names. We didn’t respond, and after a while they started throwing rocks at us.
At first the rocks didn’t fall very close to us. It was a bright afternoon, and we wanted to play. We decided we were going to stay put. My sibling wanted to go home and pulled at me to go back home. But I said we needed to stay. Or maybe I just thought that, and my sibling just went along with me. Our dad was really into standing your ground and not backing down from your position, if you were threatened, and I wanted to make my dad proud of me and not give in to bullies. I remember the thought going through my head, that we needed to stand our ground and not just run away.
Several rocks fell closer and closer to us. I think the other kids threw 3 or 4 rocks before they got close. While they were throwing the rocks at us, I remember them laughing and urging each other to get closer. I remember focusing on just ignoring them and not being intimidated by them. It didn’t occur to me that I could be hurt — or maybe I didn’t care?
After a number of times of trying to hit us, they succeeded. I remember the distant feeling of a rock hitting my head — then everything went dark.
The next thing I remember, was looking up to see my sibling sitting beside me, crying. They hovered over me, tears streaming down their face, looking terrified.
I remember being really dazed and foggy as I came to. But I did finally know we needed to go home. The kids on the other side of the field were laughing and cheering that they’d hit me, and when we left the field they were jeering at us. I remember feeling like I’d failed, like I’d given in to being bullied, and I was really disappointed with myself.
I recall being wobbly and woozy on the way home, and my sibling was very upset and crying the whole way there. I was embarrassed by the display of emotion. I wanted to be stoic and take it like a grown-up. I didn’t want to be injured. I didn’t want to be woozy. I didn’t want to be wobbly. And I certainly didn’t want to cry.
When we got home, I remember my sibling telling our mom and dad what had happened. I was embarrassed that I’d been hurt and needed attention, and I was upset that I worried them. I remember Dad telling me to lie down on the couch, and he looked at my head — I don’t remember bleeding — but I recall that I did have a huge lump on my head.
The bump on my head was above my hairline, which made it difficult for my mom and dad to see where I was hurt. The bump was pretty prominent, and they got some ice to put on it, which hurt, because the edges of the ice cubes were hard and felt sharp. I really just wanted to not attract attention and not be fussed over. I just wanted the whole experience to go away, so wouldn’t worry everyone. My sibling was so upset and crying, our mom had to take them out of the room and get them away from me.
My parents called a friend of theirs who was a registered nurse, and she told them to get a flashlight and check my eyes for any dilation. I seem to remember something about them not being sure if my pupils were dilated or not, but in any case, they had me lie on my left side, facing the back of the couch, and put ice on the bump.
I remember I was so tired, and I wanted to sleep, but my dad made sure I stayed awake. I remember him looking in my eyes several times to see if I had a concussion, and both my parents discussed whether or not I should go to the hospital. If I remember correctly, my dad said he didn’t think I had a concussion, so they didn’t take me.
Things were very foggy for me, after that. And I recall not being allowed to play much, in the coming days.
It wasn’t long after that, that I noticed that the moon was double, when I looked up at it, at night. When I told my parents this, they were alarmed and took me to the eye doctor.
Wrong doctor, I think…
The US Dept of Veterans Affairs has some great information at http://www.rehab.research.va.gov/jour/07/44/7/contents.html
Here’s hoping that folks suffering from TBI will be better served — especially our veterans.
It all took me pretty much by surprise…
I have been going through a pretty intense time in my life, for the past couple of years… having trouble with work, having trouble with relationships, having trouble keeping up with the demands of daily life. Things that other people seem to find easy — keeping groceries in the fridge, holding down a steady job, having a social life, keeping the house repaired and well-maintained — have gotten increasingly difficult for me, over the past few years.
I just couldn’t go on, constantly feeling like I was playing catch-up, never being able to hold down work at the same job longer than a year or two… I’ve got a mortgage to pay, and obligations to meet, and I was getting damned tired of living in isolation. I couldnt afford to be so erratic. Not anymore.
So, I sought professional help, about six months ago. In talking to my counselor, I came to realize just how traumatic my childhood was, how many behavioral issues I had, how my relationship with my parents and siblings has always been strained… but why?!
I was trying to “track” my personal experiences that might have caused me to be the disruptive, rebellious, defiant “behavioral challenge” that I was in school and at home. What could have happened to me, to cause me to be at such odds with my parents and teachers, in and out of trouble, grades up and down, never really performing at my peak potential… What was this terrible experience I’d endured at the hands of the world, that made me so angry and bitter and aggressive?
I just couldn’t figure it out… My parents are not awful people, and even at their worst, they didn’t terribly abuse me. My school experience wasn’t great, and my teachers were often sorely lacking, but my education wasn’t some Dickensian nightmare. My childhood was just not as horrific as my symptoms would imply.
Then, I was looking around online and came across a site about recovery from trauma. I clicked through some links, followed more links, followed more links… and ended up on a page that read like a chronicle of the last 35 years of my life — it was a web page about traumatic brain injury.
Everything on that page sounded like a description of my childhood… and adulthood. From the Cognitive Difficulties after TBI to Behavioral/Emotional Difficulties, it was like reading a high-level description of my life.
And I thought back to when things seemed to change drastically for me… when I started having real problems in school and with other kids — right after I was struck on the head by a rock thrown at me by kids who didn’t like my looks. I was knocked out briefly, if I remember correctly, and was pretty “out of it” for a while after the impact. My parents had me lie down and they kept an eye on me, but they decided the hospital wasn’t the place to take me, as I didn’t seem to have a concussion.
After that incident (assault), I remember wondering why I was so aggressive with the other kids in school. Why I was so angry, why I was so frustrated, why I said and did things I didn’t mean to say and do — teasing kids mercilessly, striking out at my siblings, being a real discipline problem at home. I couldn’t seem to understand what was going on around me, anymore. I remember wondering why. I consciously noticed a difference in my behavior that baffled me. It was like I was watching a bad movie of myself doing impossible things, unable to control myself and my impulses. It never occurred to me that getting hit on the head had anything to do with it.
But it did. I’m convinced of it. I also believe that — as a very active athlete — I may have re-injured myself in sports and outdoor activities over the years. Falling down and getting a little dazed was not a rare occurrence for me, and I may have easily done more damage to my brain without knowing it.
Over the years, I’ve essentially rehabilitated myself — largely in response to the threat of being punished for things “I” did. I grew up as “problem” that people couldn’t figure out how to solve, and I spent an awful lot of time struggling to reach (or simulate) some semblance of normalcy and regularity in my life. I’ve struggled all my life with not understanding what people were saying to me right away… not being able to keep myself from saying socially inappropriate things (especially relating to gender and race and religion)… not being able to perform up to what I knew my potential was… not being able to concentrate for long periods of time… losing focus… forgetting things… struggling academically… a whole slew of issues that I can now see were 99% probably due to that head trauma I sustained around 1972-3. I’ve recovered admirably… on the surface, anyway. And I do a damned good impression of a “normal” person.
Then I slipped and fell down a flight of stairs at the end of 2004, and I hit my head — hard — on the first 3-4 steps before I pulled my head up and tore up my back in the process. After that experience, all my relationships at work started to suffer, my work product suffered, and I burned bridges with people who probably never realized that there may have been a physiological and neurological reason for why I was acting like such a bastard. I blamed stress at the time. But now I blame mild traumatic brain injury (MTBI), which can have anything but mild consequences.
My story is still far from over I’m still trying to track down all the details about my situation — taking notes about events that happened, my symptoms, possible after-effects from my injury/-ies. The more closely I look at my past, the more sense an MBTI makes. It explains a whole lot that’s baffled and mystified and frustrated me over the years.
I’m not happy to have sustained MTBI(s), but I’m happy I finally figured this out.
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