You Never Told Anyone

You never talked about it with any of the others.  You didn't tell them about my accident.  My broken brain.  That I was lucky to have walked away, to be alive, no longer working but functioning.  You never told them.  You left it for me to tell.  The awkward silences.  They hadn't even been told that I was in an accident.  Never mind that my career got smashed up along with the car.  Retired.  The junkyard.  Kaput.  What did you tell them if they asked?  That I'm fine, living in the cold country on a farm.  Away from civilization.  If they even asked.  I am the forgotten one.  Invisible.  Quiet.  Disappearing.

I know they asked about her.  She has a fancy job.  A fancy car.  A manly man of a husband. She's going places, that one is.  You were always so proud of her.  She is gifted. Beautiful.  Wonderful.  You wore your pride on your sleeve.  You never hid it.  Even in these moments when you are closest to death, you still don't.  She is larger than life.  All consuming.  Her problems consume you.  Everyone knows about the flood that ate her living room.  Everyone.  

Her brain is intact.  She's never had to use a cane.  She's never had to fight the System.  She's never been on a picket line with signs and comrades around her in masks all screaming "Feck the System" in one terrible silent voice, arms and hands moving to form the words that too soon die in the throat.  She's never been tested.  Her brain is not broken.  She is enviable.

My brain is broken.  I am awkward.  Falling.  With twisted words and too-loud laughter inserted at the wrong places in too-long conversations.  Lost in a sea of faces that all merge into each other.  Knocked over by putrid pink drifting up from the scummy floor of the public rest room.  In the corner, hiding my eyes from the sun.  Hiding under my hat.  Darting away from the glare.  This is who I have become. 

I am the forgotten one.  But no longer invisible, quiet, silent, good, disappearing.  I am enraged.  I am the one on the picket lines with signs and comrades around me in masks all screaming "Feck the System" in one terrible silent voice, arms and hands moving to form the words that too soon die in the wind.  You forgot to tell them about my car accident, my broken brain.  You forgot to tell them that I've had to fight for every damn thing I've got.  You forgot to tell them that the System is not a free ride.  That every day is hard work.  That I have to remind my brain to think and my body to move.  That rhythm is not spontaneous, that every movement is artificial.  That nothing is automatic anymore.

I am the one on the picket lines with signs and comrades around me in masks all screaming "Feck the System" in one terrible silent voice, arms and hands moving to form the words that too soon--
You forgot to tell them.  But I haven't forgotten.  We rise up together, comrades in masks with signs with rage with flags.  We rise up and demand to be seen, heard, acknowledged.  We rise up together a crippled mass of hurt and twisted pain.  We rise up together beautiful in our rage.

sapphoq healing t.b.i.

Dear Beverly

I saw you today.  I saw you shift around in your seat looking anywhere but in my direction.  I know you saw me too.  I've thought about you over the years.  Do you remember the last time we ran into each other?  Do you remember what you said?  Because I sure do.

I was in the mall.  You were there with some of the old crew that I used to work with.  I used to work with you too actually.  The accident finished all of that for me.  You looked me in the face and told me that I don't have a brain injury.  I was astonished.  After all, Beverly, I was tested at the rehab by a neuropsych doc.  An expert. 

I had a personality change after my accident.  Even my taste in reading changed, when I was able to read again.  I slept a lot.  I told raunchy jokes--to everyone-- even to my eighty year old mother-in-law.  I cursed worse than I ever had before.  I had visual changes.  I have a list of things that I've been diagnosed with, all secondary to my traumatic brain injury.  

But you, in your infinite knowledge denial concluded that the experts were wrong.  You weren't there in my bedroom during the first few months when I slept for 22 hours a day.  I got up only to go to some doctor or other and to eat.  You weren't there when I insisted with tears that the classical music station be left on at night.  You weren't there the time that I smelled the non-existent chocolate chip cookies burning in the oven.  Or when the neurodoc stuck six needles in the back of my head on three separate occasions in an attempt to stop the constant headaches.  Those needles in my skull felt good.  That is how much pain I was in.  You weren't there when the first eye doctor informed the assistant "post-head trauma" and walked out of the room.  You weren't there when I looked those words up on the Internet and found out why all these things were happening to me.  You weren't there for the delivery of my TENS unit, my c-pap machine, my cane that I needed to steady me because I no longer know where I am in space.  I fall a lot.  To my right side.  The constant vertigo makes the room spin to the left. You weren't there.

I want you to know that I was hurt by your denial.  I live with my brain damage every day.  I am very glad to be alive.  During the accident I thought to myself, "This is it.  I'm dead."  I had no attachment to those words.  Time stopped.  When it started again, I was alive.  Once I escaped, I knew immediately that I no longer understood the world.  You have the luxury of denial.  I don't.

 I am not contagious Beverly.  You won't catch my brain damage if you were to stop and say hello, have a conversation.  I don't really understand that fear.  I can't relate to it.  I will not live my life in fear.  But some people have to.  I used to think that a traumatic injury was one of the worst things that could happen to a human being.  I don't anymore.  The worst thing is ignorance, living one's life in fear.  That is the worst thing.  


It's been eight years now since my accident.  We don't travel in the same circles.  I've gone on to other things.  And so have you.    So go ahead.  Ignore me when I see you in public next time.  Pretend that brain damage cannot happen to your boss, your co-worker, your son, your friend, you.  Pretend that you don't see me.  It's alright Beverly.  I understand more than I ever wanted to. 


I hope you never have to.

sapphoq healing t.b.i.