If It's Worth Having, Then It's Worth Working For

     Out of all of the professionals and specialists that I've dealt with in respect to my traumatic brain injury, there was a grand total of one-- and only one-- who told me that I was capable of learning how to control my impulses and harness my dis-inhibitions. Let me explain further:

     Go to any brain injury unit and you are likely to find patients who curse fluently. I'm not claiming pre-injury innocence. What I'm saying is that cursing originates from the more primitive, reptilian part of the brain located deeper in than language is. Hurt a brain, you will probably hurt communication but the cursing may remain more fluent than language skills for a time.

     I was talking with a friend who is eighteen months away from his stroke. He told me that he was having trouble with just blurting things out. He was astonished when I said that he could learn to govern that. Blurting things out and cursing both have a similar emotional component to them, to my way of thinking. 

     I also had experienced those sorts of demands from my fractured brain. I learned that when I was feeling a pressure to "Say it, just say it!" that was when I almost certainly should not "Just say it." And the cursing thing? I found out that it was easier for me to strive not to curse at all than it was for me to give myself permission to curse at some times and not at others. Learning not to insert the f-bomb into every other sentence and learning not to blurt things out were two things that helped me feel some semblance of control during a time when the world was still wobbly and rotating slowly to my left.

     Was it difficult and challenging to develop some self-discipline? Yup. But I worked on it and I continue to work on that because I have found the results to be rewarding. Not feeling driven to tell my very proper mother-in-law filthy jokes over dinner in a restaurant made the meal go better. I was happier being able to blend in a bit. And m.i.l. certainly was happier too.

     Do I curse now? Yup. A lot less than post-injury and less than my pre-injury days too.

     Self-discipline is something that I found to be worth working for. I tell myself daily, "Get up, clean up, walk the dog, go to the gym. Your brain damage is not an acceptable excuse for your laziness." And so I get up, clean up, walk the dog, and go to the gym. I still have to rest during the day however I am getting stuff done now. And that feels good to me.

     There are bunches of stuff that is no longer automatic for me. I have to think through some tasks before I am able to do them. I have to concentrate on where my feet are going as I walk so I don't fall. I have to have things put away in the same places today so that I can find them again tomorrow. Supplies for cleaning the floors go on one shelf on the back porch. The laundry bag lives next to the washing machine. The stationary, bills, check book, stamps, and pens are kept in the desk. I still struggle with organizing today but not as much as I used to. I can get more done because I am not stumbling around the house in a blind rage unable to find the vacuum cleaner bags.

 sapphoq healing t.b.i. says:

If It's Worth Having, Then It's Worth Working For.

If It's Worth Having, Then It's Worth Working For.

If It's Worth Having, Then It's Worth Working For.

T.B.I AND DEAD PEOPLE 3/23/07

I like mornings alright. It's something inside of me really. Something that resents change. Those between times where I shake myself from infested sleep, where the boundaries are blurred. Tapping into power. It is not something inside of me. It is I who doesn't care for the murky undefined borderlands of between.

The dog is instantly awake. She is my startling opposite. Frizzly energy to my melancholy. She explodes with happiness. My dog celebrates mornings for both of us. We are a community intertwined in Destiny herself, my dog and I. Without her, my fear would have rendered me sterile. Taken me down and drowned me in the onslaught of my atypical neurology.

It is my fear that chokes me. I will not be remembered. I will not have made enough of a difference. That is my fear. My dog knows this. She pushes me on and out into the sunlight. Blinking with pain and photophobia, I shield my eyes, always glad to return to the safety of home and dim lighting.

Home is where I hang my hat, hang the dog leash, stash my protein breakfast bars of power and frozen colored ices. Those bars of power are the breakfasts of champions.

Mrs. Eugenia Simpson gyrates onto the stage, clickety-clack, screaming for notice. It is a curse, this 99th percentile memory which survived through my broken brain. It is a curse, this second sight, third eye, and fourth dimension. "Eugenia," I address her, "I don't care what you think about my breakfast. I didn't know you thought about me after all of these years. You are dead you know. D-E-A-D dead." She throws my eighth grade health book at me. It opens to the how to eat correctly and what to eat when triangle. I laugh. She keeps dancing.

Some wise fool once defined nirvana as a day without dead people and traumatic brain injury. The ghosts keep floating through me as more memories filter in, like sunlight stinging my eyes. Rebuilding neurons and synapses yield dead ends of central nervous system tremor. Permanent. Another mark of progress. I have been marked beyond skin and sinew.

Community is the who around me, the us, dead people and all. I have neglected so much in my artificial quest for wholeness. I have forgotten the Other. The Other whose land we have stolen. I am also the Other. The interior landscapes of my brain has also been stolen, twisted beyond recognition, and left in a dumpster.

I am a second generation American. Briella is my second generation brain. Brilliant but sideways. Doing the two-step to Eugenia's celebratory dance. My dog nudges me. She dances and sings to me, "It's okay to let go of the gilded lily. It is not yours to pay. Come play with me in the wilderness." Somehow I think that didn't translate so well. I sigh and pick up the dog leash. We step out into the wilderness together.

sapphoq healing t.b.i.

INTIMIDATION AND MOTIVATION 2/12/07

Rather unfortunate this whole question of motivation and the traumatic brain injury survivor. I suspect that I am not the only t.b.i.-er in the universe with disappearing motivation. The problem lies in intimidation. The world is noisy and multi-tasking. I am neither. Now finding my new true self even more out of step with society as a whole than I used to be, introspection and deep dark thoughts are now the norm. Or to put it another way-- the laziness factor.

I have written about this problem before. Laziness is composed of many facets. We have the sit factor, the sit-and-pitch-numerous-bitches factor, the mystic-meditator factor, and the oh-hell-I-think-I'll-just-sleep factor. Reality can be intimidating to those of us who are now content with or have to make do with single-tasking. Since I am not prepared to argue that reality is entirely subjective, I must leave behind the fantasy world of the quick-fix and the get-rich-now. We are indeed human beings and not human-doers as the old saw goes. I find that being usually does not exist outside of a context. Thus the backdrop of doing cannot be eliminated.

Intimidation. Change is intimidating. A messy house-- or rather, the prospect of cleaning it up and organizing-- is intimidating. Taking risks is risky. Am I better off hanging with bunches of people who have no ambition or hanging with people who do have ambition in healthy measure? Is it better to keep the peace or to hold one's own in an argument? Is intimidation the indication of time to run off and hide or the measure of inner strength?

Questions, questions, questions. These questions do have answers. If I want something different, I must do something different. The old ways and the learned new ways do not work. Change I must. And so I look intimation squarely in the eye and I laugh!

sapphoq healing tbi