|Reblogged from mindjet.com|
Of course, this is not always a good thing because I don't always make sense. I speak before I've thought through what I want to say, and I can almost see those I talk with girding themselves for a rambling treatise with a very unclear topic. Not the first human to do this, I know, but it's a different kind of frustrating. I almost want to shut up until I can say something meaningful and concise. But not quite. It's better than stuttering and stumbling around for words. Three months ago, if I couldn't think of the word for "island," say, I'd go "eyelet...isle...iamond...that thing? In a river? The land?" And feel very stupid.
|from Amanda Patterson's blog|
Now this is me, during yoga: "Oh, when we turn that way I can see Charles Island. Right in the middle of the window. Like a picture, or a frame, or a picture frame, or whatever, just in the middle. It's so...not spark...spar...sparse, yeah, like all empty you can almost see through it, like glass. Of course I am looking through glass (smile). But I like this spot here. By the window. When I turn."
Except we're supposed to be quiet in yoga, and this was never a problem for me, even before the concussions. My instructor's ready to tape my mouth closed. Everyone looks at me like "Um...Lisa? We're like...meditating?" But of course they don't say that because they're all being silent.
This is how my recovery goes. I "trade up" problems. I still chug out intentional thoughts slowly, but unintentional thoughts are in some kind of babbling stage. Since everyone knows someone who talks like I do right now, they think it's normal. But it's not normal for me.
|MIT Neuroscience OpenCourse|
A year ago, I spoke slow and careful, like picking rocks to step on when crossing a stream. My brain was able to pick out the words I wanted to say but then jamming them through whatever channels led to speech took time. If I hadn't taken the Adderall, often nothing came out. I'd just shake my head and sigh. If I had, I'd get through it like I was typing on a typewriter, hunt and peck.
Now, it's the opposite. I still write much more coherently than I speak because I'm bypassing that speaking
|CDC Facebook page Head's Up--brain injury awareness|
In the end, I said a few empty or nonsensical things, but also carried on a reasonable but brief conversation about boats. If she hadn't told him anything about my oddities, he probably thought I was just nervous, or he was, so the conversation was a little strange. If she had, he probably thought "that's not so bad."
Which is good. That's what I'm going for. I often convince myself when I'm alone in a quiet room that there's absolutely nothing wrong with me, I'm fully recovered, and I feel terribly guilty for not being back to work, or at least not fully running my household. Then I put myself in a situation that's more demanding, and one after another of my cognitive issues pop up like--okay...what's that thing where you push the button on a preschool toy and something pops up?...no, that's not it. More like that game where you bop things? Little critters? Mole rats? Yeah--whac-a-mole. Like that. Speech. Organization. Overstimulation. Anxiety.
Last weekend I went scrapbooking with my mother and cousin on the Cape. I should have known I was in trouble when it took me most of two days to organize last year's pictures and send 100 of them to be printed out at Walmart, but I thought this was a good start. I had pictures. There's no scrapbooking without them.
|Our table, my daughter Sheyanne on the left, Mom on the right.|
|Cultivating Happiness blog|
My God. Nine hours to glue two pictures and one little box of journaling on one page.
|Cultivating Happiness blog|
Now my creativity is gone, at least visually. Last weekend's scrapbook pages were robotic. I finally found a way to make 2 pictures and one journalling box fit on the page in reasonable fashion and did the same thing over, and over, for two days. It was a breakthrough of sorts, because I haven't been able to do even one page in 20 months. Small victory, though. It's like figuring out how to make iced tea this summer. I mean, I did it, but how can you be proud of something like that? It's ridiculous. I still can't remember how to make a smoothie. A smoothie. And I refuse to look it up, because that'll make me feel even stupider. This is the rigid, illogical part of my brain talking. If I can't do it independently, I don't want to do it at all, thank you.
Adderall can't help with everything.
For the record, I've been doing some DIID therapy at home too. Even though I've promised to write about it, I haven't. I hate it just that much. It's auditory processing therapy and it's evil, albeit potentially very useful. So I'm not promising to write about it. But I might be forced to complain about it more specifically in the future.
In the meantime, I'm fine. Could be better. Could be worse. I'm seeing a psychiatrist, who would like me to accept that I have a traumatic brain injury, and is probably going to recommend more neuropsych testing, and that I give up my psychologist license. I'm seeing a neurologist who's all but given up on me because he doesn't understand why I haven't regained all my skills in this time. I swing between thinking I'm not that different from other people, and that I'm an idiot in the literal sense of the word. Maybe both.
I take care of my kids, do what I can manage in the house (i.e. planned meals, paperwork, laundry, rides, not money, not phone calls, not repairs or any kind of problem solving). I read, and I write.
I'm better. I'm just not "me." Not the me I remember. Not yet.