Phases
I should be writing something tomorrow, as it will be three months since the accident, but, well, I guess I'm still doing what I want.
I have to admit, I had to go back and reread what I'd written. Not just that about two months went by, but because I'd have to actually read them to remember writing them. So, two months. My last commentary was that it was raining an ungodly amount. No exaggeration. That I remember. I must have woken up, all better, and forgotten all about this blog, right? It was more like, I work up, still busted, and decided without actually intentionally deciding that I had no more to say.
To me, there was no clear indicator that this "no more to say" was coming. I'd lived in perpetual brain fog for me, that it was my personality now. There was a part of me that had absolutely given up hope that I'd ever return to my former self or be a new version of normal. But there was another part of me convinced I'd wake up one day, myself, as if none of this had ever happened. I imagined I'd look in the mirror, recognize the face smiling back at me, and say, "Oh, your hair got longer!" Being impaired, that's as much depth as the fantasy went, but I believed in it more, and I believed in it hard.
Here's what happened, instead. I'd slip out of the fog, so quickly that I didn't even have time to understand what was happening. I won't say appreciate it. You've bought into the "longer hair" fantasy? My few moments of "awake" were terrifying. Thoughts rushed at me, panic immediately setting in, my heart pounding. The most predominate first thought was, "Where's my wedding ring?" followed by the confusion of, "Where is my husband?" and, "Who is my husband?" The panic getting even stronger as there were no answers. Then, "What day is it? What time is it? Why aren't I at work?" Following, "Where do I work? And why am I not there?" And there was no one to ask. I know my own terror. I can't imagine another person watching and hearing it. At some point as I was spiraling out of control, I'd almost gratefully slip back into the fog. There were no answers in the fog, but thankfully there were no questions.
Here's the kicker. This happened over. And over. And over. The questions and confusion and terror were the same. I'd wake up to this dreadful existence. Over time, there was part of me that almost acted as an agent between these two worlds. For instance, I bought an inexpensive ring to wear as a wedding band. It was, I found, one less thing to freak out about. Never mind that I hadn't really been married for two years. It, apparently, was just one less thing for my mind to process. I didn't take it off until I started waking up and curiously wonder why I was wearing a ring on that finger. Even then I'm not sure I was getting better.
I have no idea how long this personal hell lasted. It certainly wasn't something I was able to document or write about. Since I haven't talked to anyone about that very long span of time, of panic to fog and back and forth, here is my very simple theory. Hell yes, I was waking up, but there was a major problem. Every time I woke up, I was processing everything all at once. Why the marriage thing, I have no idea. There were other strange things that I can't believe now I was having to actually reprocess, not just process for the first time.
I lasted a long time before deciding that killing myself was the only way out of this nightmare. Obviously, that's not what happened. Here I am, and that's maybe another hard confession. That was another part in my abrupt stop to writing. Depression and anxiety hit me like a train coming out of nowhere. And, in that state of mind, no way did I have anything to say.
The awake moments lasted longer. Every time I'd have to process what had happened. I didn't want to kill myself, anymore, but neither did I want to come to just to relive the accident and very random details of my life. I didn't notice the awake moments getting longer and longer. Or when suddenly I was more awake than in a fog. And I'm afraid I can't even commemorate the day I woke up, presumably for good. I, strangely, didn't exactly notice. I didn't even feel like it was too good to be true. It's just that it couldn't be true. A person can get used to all sorts of hells. And then time went on to the point where I couldn't properly articulate what the fog felt like. How does one describe fog? Just like the real thing, it evaporated away, leaving me no way to detail it at all, besides the earliest writings I'd done here.
No, not all better. With every new phase brings new challenges. On the surface, everything looks about the same. I'm still unemployed. People still frighten me. I try to stay indoors. The isolation is stifling. But there's such a strong desire to be my own champion, even though I'd not sure what that looks like or how. That's new.
And just maybe my hair got longer.
I have to admit, I had to go back and reread what I'd written. Not just that about two months went by, but because I'd have to actually read them to remember writing them. So, two months. My last commentary was that it was raining an ungodly amount. No exaggeration. That I remember. I must have woken up, all better, and forgotten all about this blog, right? It was more like, I work up, still busted, and decided without actually intentionally deciding that I had no more to say.
To me, there was no clear indicator that this "no more to say" was coming. I'd lived in perpetual brain fog for me, that it was my personality now. There was a part of me that had absolutely given up hope that I'd ever return to my former self or be a new version of normal. But there was another part of me convinced I'd wake up one day, myself, as if none of this had ever happened. I imagined I'd look in the mirror, recognize the face smiling back at me, and say, "Oh, your hair got longer!" Being impaired, that's as much depth as the fantasy went, but I believed in it more, and I believed in it hard.
Here's what happened, instead. I'd slip out of the fog, so quickly that I didn't even have time to understand what was happening. I won't say appreciate it. You've bought into the "longer hair" fantasy? My few moments of "awake" were terrifying. Thoughts rushed at me, panic immediately setting in, my heart pounding. The most predominate first thought was, "Where's my wedding ring?" followed by the confusion of, "Where is my husband?" and, "Who is my husband?" The panic getting even stronger as there were no answers. Then, "What day is it? What time is it? Why aren't I at work?" Following, "Where do I work? And why am I not there?" And there was no one to ask. I know my own terror. I can't imagine another person watching and hearing it. At some point as I was spiraling out of control, I'd almost gratefully slip back into the fog. There were no answers in the fog, but thankfully there were no questions.
Here's the kicker. This happened over. And over. And over. The questions and confusion and terror were the same. I'd wake up to this dreadful existence. Over time, there was part of me that almost acted as an agent between these two worlds. For instance, I bought an inexpensive ring to wear as a wedding band. It was, I found, one less thing to freak out about. Never mind that I hadn't really been married for two years. It, apparently, was just one less thing for my mind to process. I didn't take it off until I started waking up and curiously wonder why I was wearing a ring on that finger. Even then I'm not sure I was getting better.
I have no idea how long this personal hell lasted. It certainly wasn't something I was able to document or write about. Since I haven't talked to anyone about that very long span of time, of panic to fog and back and forth, here is my very simple theory. Hell yes, I was waking up, but there was a major problem. Every time I woke up, I was processing everything all at once. Why the marriage thing, I have no idea. There were other strange things that I can't believe now I was having to actually reprocess, not just process for the first time.
I lasted a long time before deciding that killing myself was the only way out of this nightmare. Obviously, that's not what happened. Here I am, and that's maybe another hard confession. That was another part in my abrupt stop to writing. Depression and anxiety hit me like a train coming out of nowhere. And, in that state of mind, no way did I have anything to say.
The awake moments lasted longer. Every time I'd have to process what had happened. I didn't want to kill myself, anymore, but neither did I want to come to just to relive the accident and very random details of my life. I didn't notice the awake moments getting longer and longer. Or when suddenly I was more awake than in a fog. And I'm afraid I can't even commemorate the day I woke up, presumably for good. I, strangely, didn't exactly notice. I didn't even feel like it was too good to be true. It's just that it couldn't be true. A person can get used to all sorts of hells. And then time went on to the point where I couldn't properly articulate what the fog felt like. How does one describe fog? Just like the real thing, it evaporated away, leaving me no way to detail it at all, besides the earliest writings I'd done here.
No, not all better. With every new phase brings new challenges. On the surface, everything looks about the same. I'm still unemployed. People still frighten me. I try to stay indoors. The isolation is stifling. But there's such a strong desire to be my own champion, even though I'd not sure what that looks like or how. That's new.
And just maybe my hair got longer.
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