Gratitude

There have been times in my life that I've felt appreciation toward those who stood by me when I had nothing to give. I really misunderstood the concept of nothing, however. I was still me. I was going through dark periods, but I was still the same person. So I'm trying to understand what it was like for people to have stood by me when not only did I have nothing to give, but I wasn't even the me that they knew. That is rock-bottom gratitude, now that so much of my sense of self is back.

I have a hard time with this. There's the insanity of the fact that I told very few people about my injury. I recently had tea at a friend's house. She had no idea where I'd been and how I'd been doing. And I heard, "Why didn't you tell me? I'd have helped you in any way!" And I like hearing that, sure. I like even more that I've moved beyond a place of that degree of helplessness. And I'm afraid I love not knowing whether or not that statement would have been true.
Many people think they're up for any challenge; few actually are in the face of a situation so bleak. I stopped telling people about my injury early on because I was tired of rejection. It was a lonely season where I asked God to please raise up someone for me. I was mostly alone, especially through the ugliest of it. But there absolutely were amazing people in my life.

I don't know how to thank these people who helped me through. This writing isn't known, I just do it privately for no one, but any writing would fall flat. So would a handwritten note. A phone call. Anything I wish I could say to these people would not have the magnitude of how I feel.

If my words could carry any meaning, this is what I wish I could say.

Nicia, you really should have been a friend who fell away. You had and still have no knowledge of what the past few months were like. Yes, you're a longtime friend, now afar, but you met me where I was, injured, nonsensical, all of it. You encouraged me just by checking in. Texts. Phone calls. Care packages. If you'd bring up something painful to me, you'd drop it when you sensed my distress, which was immediately. You made me feel valued when I felt I had no value. Like a friend when I couldn't be a friend to you. Worthy when I felt worthless. There was no promise that this nightmare was ever going to end. Why did you stick around? To question that, though, is to question the good in you. You had a friend who passed away during this. It was sudden, unexpected. You'd been to the funeral and we were texting about it. Whatever filter I used to have is even worse for wear because I asked why you went to funerals. I was genuinely curious. I do not attend funerals, and I wondered why you'd gone. You said something very telling. You said that she went because she'd made a difference in your life; that it was a matter of respect. And I thought, "Maybe that's me, too. Maybe that's why she stayed with me." 

Laura, how many times have I mentioned you in these writings or even wanted to. You had the tough breaks, kid, of being a caretaker for two people close to you with traumatic brain injuries. I remember talking to you on the phone, another longtime, far-away friend, and asking why I wasn't making you angry. That is, my manner of speech, the way I wasn't able to focus or focused on all the wrong things, how I couldn't ever get a conversation from point a to point b. But I cried, "Why aren't you angry with me?" That was the main reasons I was swiftly losing friends, I thought. I was making them angry and unable to be whatever they expected me to be or whoever I once was. I shouldered all the blame for losing those friends. Instead, Laura said, "You're not saying anything to get angry about." And another month later, she said, "Mel, our conversations never went from point a to point b, ever." I won't say she had an easier time having experienced brain injuries around her. In fact, that might be as good enough an excuse to say, "No more, I'm done." She was as gentle was she could be. One of the most comforting people in my life. And she, too, had no promise that I'd get any better. She just stayed the course. Since I hold her words so highly in regard, maybe one day I'll get her to articulate why. 

Mom, you, unfortunately know you would not have been my choice of people to lift me up. I actually told you. My broken filter knows no bounds. But you literally showed up. You'd have moved in and stayed with me this entire time if I'd let you. I didn't have a relationship with you before. That I haven't said, but to pretend like I knew you before this would be false. For whatever reason, we just didn't click. But as I started to suspect a concussion, I asked you to read up on it and come out to help. And I almost promised you that I'd throw a shoe at you, my caretaker. Having no experience with any of my injuries, especially one to the brain, you read articles online, ordered books, sent me books, showed up as a flight could get you here, ready and willing. And also knowing that that shoe thing was no joke. You, the non-physical person that you were, took my hand as my tears started spilling down my cheeks. You moved across the couch and hugged me because the loneliness was still so powerful with you just a few feet away. You heard every swear word in the book, not aimed at you, but still a lot for one who once said that my swearing offended you. You let me curse, knowing I somehow needed to. You let me spew dark thoughts, knowing that wasn't me. You put down the pom-poms because you knew I didn't need a cheerleader. I needed someone to allow me to be angry and pessimistic. I felt validated in that dark place, and that helped me move to a lighter one. I couldn't be encouraged in the typical sense. I couldn't even be dragged there. I couldn't even do it of my own accord. Instead, it was like burning piles and piles of garbage. It had to burn away before there was any hope of rebuilding. And, well, there was no promise that we'd ever run out of garbage. But slowly, there was less and then none. Thank you, Mom, for not telling me that the garbage was my fault, or, worse, that it wasn't actually garbage at all when it so obviously was. Instead, you just admitted it was and got a book of matches. For the three-hour monologues from my destroyed brain that you listened to. The highlighted articles you left for me that you'd already read. The painstakingly thought-out meals you prepared because you'd read they were good for brain inflammation. You'll say that any mother would do that for their child. No, you don't get to think so little of yourself. It was like you were wearing all white and climbed into a deep mud puddle just to be near me. And now that I'm better, I'm worried. Will you understand that although maybe I don't need you in that capacity, will you believe how deeply I want you as a friend? Or will the thought be that your only value is when I'm too broken to push you away. Mom, you know how angry I was to have survived that crash. I never thought I'd feel any sense of gratitude that I'd lived. But this time I had with you, even if it was only for this short season, it was worth it. Getting to know you was worth coming back for, Mom.

Thank you, all.