This Is My brain On HSE

Sometimes seemingly disconnected, often paradoxical, and altogether truthful will be the words written in this weird blog of my road back to acceptable existence.

I am not going to pretend anyone is going to read this. I do this, in part out of some hope, and in part for my two grown children; all that I love in this world.

I do not understand why they do not love me and I find that an almost unbearable mystery. One that perhaps I will somehow solve in these writings behind the writings.

I have found it necessary, you see, to write here….as I am also writing what I have always held as a destined accomplishment, my memoirs.

Writing those memoirs, I have encountered painful memories that continue to stop me and blow my sails of courage to shreds.

I find myself returning to the bed that I’ve risen from after 4 long years and sinking back into the morbid comfort of its embrace and asking myself how I will ever accomplish that life goal.

I long for the love and companionship of my son and my new grandson and struggle with the loss of my daughters love.

I struggle with the memories of the person I was; the person I fought to become with years of cerebral efforting, therapy, education and courage. I cannot seem to find a way to come to terms with the picture I stand inside of today that is somehow recklessly smeared across this ugly, besmirched canvas.

I don’t belong in this picture.

it’s almost Hitchcockian to me…to see myself in this picture.

It’s a paradox. It makes so little sense.

I have survived some of life’s most horrific mud-slings through my own passion, will and courage. I did so b/c I was needed. I was loved. I was believed in.

I know the meaning and value of love, humility, TRUTH, dignity, morality, and compassion.

I know the meaning of giving and the true gift of it as well.

I believe in the interconnectedness of all life in this Universe and never have lost the hunger to grow.

You see….so there it is. There are many of the bigger pieces of my puzzle.

It is the more subtle, similarly colored pieces that all so very much the same that I cannot separate and decipher.

For out of the horrors of this life that I have lived in and through and past, one disturbance remained my constant nemesis and that was/is depression.

I’ve handled it much better over the years but it has always shadowed me like some haunting memory.

I learned to monitor it and yes medicate it with the most commonly used pill available to mankind.

I’ve nearly mastered it at times in my life but it always…always returned.

Still and yet, I had what I thought….was a beautiful, happy successful life when this nasty thing attacked my body and hit my brain: HSE.

I’ve only begun trying to live again, so to speak, for 14 months and I cannot seem to succeed.

This weekend was a dreary, rainy, cold weekend and I’ve always thought that I love that type of weather, as my brain pain is substantially less in cooler climates without sun.

Apparently nothing is sacred when it comes to what I tell myself. Or perhaps my weekend in bed watching old black and whites and tending to no…..thing that needed tending to had nothing to do with the weather.

Oh how I struggle with words.

The writer who cannot write anymore….but… I cannot allow myself to believe that. I must trust that I can become a cohesive, insightfully self-editing writer again.

This brain disease, and btw, when I refer to the brain disease I am totally referring to THE brain disease….not the depression, takes the gold metal in brutality.

I fight this horrible, wretched, inexplicable inner brain battle that restricts my very ability to express it.

I realize…in quiet moments and dear God there are so many of them that even my poor dogs are depressed, what a waste my life is and will end as if I cannot find my way back to a much higher level of functioning.

Yet my hands are tied to the point that I cannot even conceive of how to help myself on so many levels without even the most minimal of tools to begin.

I can only try…and keep coming back over and over; narrating this weirdly structured behind-the-scenes-of-trying to-write-my-memoirs-blog.

How can I hope to do this…rehabbing of myself without the tools that… out there somewhere for someone who has suffered a brain injury. Not the kind that happens when you have a traumatic accident and a blow to the head…but the Acquired type that injures the brain still and yet.

I see what a meaningless and lackluster existence I am suffocating within, but I haven’t the means to comprehensively and systemically rehabilitate what can be, and learn to work around and the rest.

To live in a world like this….and be so terribly alone and unwanted or cared about enough by anyone to be any part of my life and help me to help myself is like living a waking nightmare. And kind of being expected to smile and be pleasantly happy.

I have only my dignity.

I cannot beg one to care. I cannot do it.

I remember begging….so many times I begged and cried for help with my depression and so many times I forced others to DO SOMETHING to help me.

I look back today at those younger years and feel great shame over those times in my life. But I don’t only feel great shame about that. I feel a great sadness. A great sadness for our humanity overall.

As I matured and worked myself to the bone day and night and pushed myself through many levels of pain to succeed, as many of us have, I learned the meaning of attaining the rewards for hard work. I developed an immense sense of dignity and self respect. I never lost that innate compassion I had even as a child…ever the nurturer.

What has become my life today, as a result of this disease, is something I struggle with so profoundly that I can literally grapple with the comprehension of it for days with rarely any other thought/s entering my mind.

Sounds fantastical and implausible I know…..but this is what I face so often.

I impose upon myself an ill defined sort of isolation. I cannot help myself in that. I do not know why. Yet it is that very isolation that breeds such terrible suffering.

I engage in efforts to break free of it but those efforts are mainly exercised by caregivers; people paid to do so.

It is not lost upon me that once one is no longer my caregiver (and without fail, promises lasting friendship) my life resonates with emptiness…the true reality of the situation I am in.

It is this truth that amplifies the deeper, darker reality of aging without being loved, and being ill.

Oh sure, I’ve been told that I am loved, casually, in those moments of social expectation to say so…..but every Christmas and Mothers Day and Easter and Thanksgiving, etc…that comes and passes, I die a thousand silent deaths alone. And I ask myself why and I drown in deep dark unknowns…over and over and over.

I would do anything to be loved as I was loved before I got this brain injury. But I am where I am. I do not have the same faculties I once possessed to survive and fight and overcome. I am aging and I have a lesion or lesions on my brain and a disease that should have killed me.

I cannot fathom a God who is so merciless that He would allow me to live in this condition…with no one.

So I embrace the Buddhist teaching/philosophy of Karma. I must have been one mean and evil soul in my last life/lives. If I do not live this out and find the way out of this, I will rot….I will literally rot from the inside out in this….hovel I dwell in that absolutely reflects my worth to anyone in this world.

So I can just….hope that…by writing this and coming back and writing again and again and again and again…that the pieces will somehow work together. Perhaps even, someone will read this who was meant to read it and holds a missing piece. I don’t know….I truly do not know.

I love….my children & grandchild so much that it hurts my stomach and it hurts my heart and in my throat when I think of how much I want to love them and talk to them and be with them.
But they have forgotten me. They have chosen to pretend I do not exist.

I don’t get it. I really don’t. I want to get it. I so want to get it.

I only want to be of value to them….a part of my sons life…to hear from my daughter…to get a reply back from the dozens of letters. To get a phone call from my son saying that he loves and misses me and is coming for a visit.

I cannot impose myself upon them if they are not interested. I just so much want to understand why and I want so badly for them to want to support me just a tiny bit….just enough to prove to them that I am still in here….I really am.

(this is a copy of my wordpress blog tonight)

Journal Comments

  • Rosalie Dale
  • DeeprBlue
  • berndt2
  • DeeprBlue
  • Elaine Manley
  • DeeprBlue
  • barnsis
  • DeeprBlue
  • knightingail