Somewhere, without my permission, the speed of life feels like it’s accelerated. Birthdays seem to come more frequently, as do anniversaries. I am quickly approaching the sixteenth anniversary of my accident and subsequent brain injury. As I seem to do every year, I look back and reflect on my life. For many years, this time of reflection came with profound sadness. But this year is different. In just over two weeks, “that day” will be here again. Almost like an out of body experience, there is no real emotion attached to the coming of November 11th. It may as well be April 9th, or August 15th, or just about any other random date.
Being an overthinker, I find myself wondering why this year is different. The sense of loss, gone. The sadness of anticipation, no longer. The early years post injury were horrible. Not just at anniversary time, but pretty much all the time. Life was as close to unsustainable as it gets. Relationships strained, finances close to nonexistent, there was very little that wasn’t difficult. But time has a way of being a quiet healer. And as those “brain injury old timers” told me after my injury, time has proven to be my friend.
Brain injury not only affected me, it affected virtually everyone I came in contact with. This is no longer the case. There is a regular rhythm to life today, one that feels, dare I say, almost normal. I still have brain injury challenges. I most likely always will. But I am no longer defined by my condition. I’ve learned to coexist with it.
There are days where the neurofatigue hits hard. I’ve learned to better pace myself when I feel it coming. There are still days when the brain fog is thick, and the mere act of thinking takes time. I just chalk it up to what I’ve got, try not to dwell on it, and remind myself that it will pass. Me and aphasia are best friends. I often butcher the English language and regularly words emerge that can’t be found in any dictionary. My wife Sarah and I are both more inclined to just laugh about it. “That’s a new one,” I often say with a smile.
I still struggle with my self-esteem. This may come as a surprise to some. But sounding confident and feeling confident are as different as apples and zebras. But when that internal voice that narrates my life tells me that my life has less value than those uninjured, I find it a bit easier to ignore. And let’s talk about my memory, or lack thereof. I am still guilty of asking a question, forgetting that I asked, only to ask again, and perhaps a third time for good measure. It’s one of those things that I know bothers those close to me, as I am thought to not be paying attention. But that’s not the case. My brain, even all these years later, still struggles to hold onto some memories. It is what it is, and though I don’t like it, I do accept it.
And therein lies the heart of why this year just feels different. On a deeper level, I am no longer fighting my fate. I accept now, more than ever, the fact that I live with a hidden disability. I can no more change this than I can change the color of my eyes. Within the brain injury family that I am now part of, some have it easier than me, while others seem to have more struggles. That puts me square in the middle as a garden variety TBI guy. Sixteen years behind me, and I still feel like some of my best years are ahead of me. And for a guy who's seen some pretty dark days, I’ll take where I am today.