"I'm bored." I always hated that expression, used by self-absorbed teenagers who are oblivious to the great lives that they lead. I try really hard not to use it, but I fail. The problem is, I'm supposed to be "bored". I'm supposed to quiet the mind for rest rather than follow the birds in the trees, the movement of the clouds, the thoughts of what tasks I need to do. No screens, no sounds, no reading, no exercise.
Lying on the bed, looking out the window, I think about which part of my head hurts. There's a ringing in my ears that increases and decreases in volume. I look down and recognize my body, but can't put it into action because it's attached to this head. I run my hands through my hair over and over trying to distract from the pressure and the pain that moves around to different parts of my skull. Sometimes the tears flow and I can’t control them.
A concussion isn't the worst thing that can happen to you, far from it, and it's not even the worst thing that's happened to me. But it's certainly a lesson in patience and mindfulness. Physically I look the same (my nose and face healed up pretty well within a few weeks, and now there's just a very faint scar above my lip that's my little reminder). I sound the same. But there's all this pressure and pain in my head that's following me around like Joe from Li’l Abner with his dark cloud.
I went to work and it was an epic failure. I was handed a document in a meeting and I couldn't read. All of a sudden it wasn't just about this pain in my head but the fact that my brain actually felt broken. That terrified me. Everything seemed hard. The pressure in my head swells with every task I try to do. I’m learning that concussion recovery is not linear, and that the mental struggle in some ways gets harder as time goes on.
Time is passing, most notably marked by the changing seasons. I've never been so aware of the seasons. I spend a lot of time watching them out the window, or noticing them when I go for walks. In the summer I could rest outside, although sometimes the sounds of birds, crickets, lawn mowers; it was screaming in my ears! The fall was an amazing colour scheme of reds, yellows and oranges. I watched every last leaf fall off the tree outside the window, and then there was snow on the ground. Now the blooms are pushing up through the dirt and it makes me wonder how many seasons I'll go through with this pain in my head, the ringing in my ears, and the times when I can’t find my words.
Today it occurred to me that, just like that, I disappeared from my previous life. The lives of colleagues, friends, acquaintances all carry on, but somehow mine feels like it's standing still. It's like being on a moving sidewalk, where I used to feel pride in the fact that I maintained the same pace as the people, routines and environment around me. Keeping pace with a job that I loved, my relationship, friendships and exercise. But now all of a sudden the mechanism for forward motion is broken. Everything else keeps moving, but I don't. And when I do try to move, it feels like the sidewalk is now a treadmill, and no matter the effort I put in, I stay in the same place while everything else passes by my periphery going out of reach, specks in the distance, and then out of sight.
I started to feel better, seven months in. It was like the shell that I'd been stuck inside started to crack, with light coming through. Like the weight that had been my brain lightened so that my neck and shoulders could manage again, and with that release I could finally take things in. It's still there - the constant ringing in my ears, and pressure in my head, but it's just...easier. Life has finally gotten a little bit easier.
I am absorbing information voraciously. My curiosity is insatiable. I try to balance my desire for news, fiction and non-fiction in the one hour per day that I can manage reading or listening. The tales being told light my mind on fire with thoughts, ideas, and information. Descriptions jump off the page (or the podcast), and having someone else guide my thoughts is a welcome change. I want to hear stories of life outside my house. I feel the stories of others so much more deeply now that I have a greater sense of focus from so much time where distractions are minimized down to nothing but the movement of the branches outside my window. Or the breathing of the sleeping dog lying on the floor beside me.
Where am I now? I’m thankful that the pain is no longer constant. I’m frustrated by the fact that every day is different and brings its own challenges to my body. I still don’t feel in control - never knowing how much time I have before the pain sets in again, or how much to push my limits to try and improve my stamina. I oscillate between moments when my hope swells for the possibility of going back to work or being able to make plans, and the fog of depression that rolls back in with the pain on a daily basis. It’s been 9 months and I still have little idea how long this process will be.
It’s hard to not see this practice of writing things down as an exercise in naval-gazing, and not to roll your eyes when people start talking about the present moment, gratitude and compassion - but those do describe the thoughts on my mind on a daily basis. I feel more present, am so thankful for the family and friends looking out for (and after) me, and I think I understand better the fact that each of us is working through different challenges in their various forms.
I imagine that, as the dark cloud lifts, as the moving sidewalk slowly starts up again, the usual distractions of life and work will take over, which is what I’ve been so desperate for through this entire period. But until then, I’ll take it in, I’ll take it slow, and I’ll feel thankful for the experience of the seasons as they pass.
I’ll wrap it up here before having us all make an affirmation, chant in a circle and hug it out. Let’s see what tomorrow brings!
Lying on the bed, looking out the window, I think about which part of my head hurts. There's a ringing in my ears that increases and decreases in volume. I look down and recognize my body, but can't put it into action because it's attached to this head. I run my hands through my hair over and over trying to distract from the pressure and the pain that moves around to different parts of my skull. Sometimes the tears flow and I can’t control them.
A concussion isn't the worst thing that can happen to you, far from it, and it's not even the worst thing that's happened to me. But it's certainly a lesson in patience and mindfulness. Physically I look the same (my nose and face healed up pretty well within a few weeks, and now there's just a very faint scar above my lip that's my little reminder). I sound the same. But there's all this pressure and pain in my head that's following me around like Joe from Li’l Abner with his dark cloud.
I went to work and it was an epic failure. I was handed a document in a meeting and I couldn't read. All of a sudden it wasn't just about this pain in my head but the fact that my brain actually felt broken. That terrified me. Everything seemed hard. The pressure in my head swells with every task I try to do. I’m learning that concussion recovery is not linear, and that the mental struggle in some ways gets harder as time goes on.
Time is passing, most notably marked by the changing seasons. I've never been so aware of the seasons. I spend a lot of time watching them out the window, or noticing them when I go for walks. In the summer I could rest outside, although sometimes the sounds of birds, crickets, lawn mowers; it was screaming in my ears! The fall was an amazing colour scheme of reds, yellows and oranges. I watched every last leaf fall off the tree outside the window, and then there was snow on the ground. Now the blooms are pushing up through the dirt and it makes me wonder how many seasons I'll go through with this pain in my head, the ringing in my ears, and the times when I can’t find my words.
Today it occurred to me that, just like that, I disappeared from my previous life. The lives of colleagues, friends, acquaintances all carry on, but somehow mine feels like it's standing still. It's like being on a moving sidewalk, where I used to feel pride in the fact that I maintained the same pace as the people, routines and environment around me. Keeping pace with a job that I loved, my relationship, friendships and exercise. But now all of a sudden the mechanism for forward motion is broken. Everything else keeps moving, but I don't. And when I do try to move, it feels like the sidewalk is now a treadmill, and no matter the effort I put in, I stay in the same place while everything else passes by my periphery going out of reach, specks in the distance, and then out of sight.
I started to feel better, seven months in. It was like the shell that I'd been stuck inside started to crack, with light coming through. Like the weight that had been my brain lightened so that my neck and shoulders could manage again, and with that release I could finally take things in. It's still there - the constant ringing in my ears, and pressure in my head, but it's just...easier. Life has finally gotten a little bit easier.
I am absorbing information voraciously. My curiosity is insatiable. I try to balance my desire for news, fiction and non-fiction in the one hour per day that I can manage reading or listening. The tales being told light my mind on fire with thoughts, ideas, and information. Descriptions jump off the page (or the podcast), and having someone else guide my thoughts is a welcome change. I want to hear stories of life outside my house. I feel the stories of others so much more deeply now that I have a greater sense of focus from so much time where distractions are minimized down to nothing but the movement of the branches outside my window. Or the breathing of the sleeping dog lying on the floor beside me.
Where am I now? I’m thankful that the pain is no longer constant. I’m frustrated by the fact that every day is different and brings its own challenges to my body. I still don’t feel in control - never knowing how much time I have before the pain sets in again, or how much to push my limits to try and improve my stamina. I oscillate between moments when my hope swells for the possibility of going back to work or being able to make plans, and the fog of depression that rolls back in with the pain on a daily basis. It’s been 9 months and I still have little idea how long this process will be.
It’s hard to not see this practice of writing things down as an exercise in naval-gazing, and not to roll your eyes when people start talking about the present moment, gratitude and compassion - but those do describe the thoughts on my mind on a daily basis. I feel more present, am so thankful for the family and friends looking out for (and after) me, and I think I understand better the fact that each of us is working through different challenges in their various forms.
I imagine that, as the dark cloud lifts, as the moving sidewalk slowly starts up again, the usual distractions of life and work will take over, which is what I’ve been so desperate for through this entire period. But until then, I’ll take it in, I’ll take it slow, and I’ll feel thankful for the experience of the seasons as they pass.
I’ll wrap it up here before having us all make an affirmation, chant in a circle and hug it out. Let’s see what tomorrow brings!
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