Life In The Slow Lane

Descended

2011-12-12T17:59:00.000-08:00

I have been wanting to see the movie The Descendants since I read the premise. I like George Clooney and all, and liked the movie Sideways but my desire to see the movie was deeper than just some glowing reviews. I didn't admit it at the time but deep down I wanted to see it for a whole different reason; to see what it was like for Aimee and my family while I was unconscious. I wanted to fill in gaps but now know that the gaps will take some time and effort to fill.

There was one problem that I hadn't anticipated and that was Aimee. I had told her about the movie briefly a few weeks back. She didn't say much at the time and I didn't think much of it after the fact, at least not until the opening scene when Clooney's character promises his wife, who lays motionless in a coma with tubes inserted into her throat, that he will change if and when she comes to.

I failed to realize how hard it would be for me to imagine myself with that same absent look on my face, with the same colored tubes in my throat. I found it hard to see my family staring at me while machines pumped air into my lungs, and fed nutrients in my veins.

Afterwards, on our way home, I told Aimee how I thought seeing the movie could help. I tried to laugh and asked her to do the same; to show progress. It was asking a lot, too much. Shortly after I realized how little all of us, whether that is my estranged family members, my wife and best friend, have dealt with it all. I now realize that coming to terms with everything is much more than measuring recovery in months and years.

Stress? What Stress?

2011-11-22T17:34:00.000-08:00

My doctor asked me today if I was under a lot of stress. I told her I didn't think so. I followed that by saying that work is difficult with an abbreviated attention span. I mentioned that my relationship with my family is strained. I told her I am extremely irritable and can't really differentiate between good or bad moods.

"Yeah, I guess I might be a bit stressed out," I told her.

"It sounds like you may be suppressing things," she said.

"Possibly."

She told me stress could be the reason for the fatigue, my overall despair, and the desire to escape. She followed that by saying that those things could also be a result of low-testosterone levels, or just the injury to the brain.

Whatever the reason these past two months have been difficult. I have been erratic, unable to concentrate on work, irritable, and fatigued. Two weeks ago, I decided to get back on Wellbutrin. Not much has changed. But, what do I expect? I can't even admit to having a little bit of stress.

Work In Progress

2011-11-03T17:50:00.000-07:00

Progress and recovery are measured in such strange ways. Whether it be a blown knee, a broken heart, or a head injury, the small steps months, years, and decades later are the true signs of progress.

I noticed a few signs of progress the other night, the night before my birthday and two nights before Halloween. A friend rented a party bus to go to a nearby bowling alley for Karaoke -- yeah, I said it, a party bus and a bowling alley, those are signs right there of improvement. The nights leading up, and the day of, I had my normal desires to stay at home, turn off the lights and escape into some action thriller or lame reality show. I knew that wasn't possible. Aimee was way too excited to dress up as Mindy to my Mork.

Despite my reservations, I felt good, I even felt all right driving Aimee's car dressed in a red jumpsuit with a silver upside triangle on my chest. We arrived at our friend's house. I had a few beers. The party bus pulled up and we get in. The driver turns the volume up on the stereo. It was loud dance music. I drank and laughed. The sounds weren't piercing, my head wasn't pounding. Progress.

I made it through the entire night, without incident, without having to go outside, or leave because the noise was too intense, or because I felt overwhelmed from the day's events.

So that's progress, at least a sign of it.

In the early months after the fall, I didn't know what recovery would look like. I doubted myself. I wrote of fears that I would turn into some aggressive, temper-filled person, ready to cry or smack my head against the wall at moments notice. One thing is for sure, I never thought recovery would look like a party bus, Halloween karaoke at a local bowling alley, and I sure as hell never thought I would be dressed as Mork for it either.

Testostergone...

2011-10-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

It's been months since I posted on a regular basis. It's crazy how this blog has reflected my mental and physical state. Days after the injury, the posts were chaotic and often incoherent. In the following weeks, I began to have more insight, I pondered what would happen as a result of the injury. Throughout the entire time, for the two years since the fall, there's been ups and downs.

The past few months have been different. I have been fatigued, withdrawn, moody, and let me throw in another fatigue for good measure. The fatigue and despondency has kept me from posting in this blog, from surfing, from being more productive at work, from calling friends and family -- the few I talk to that is. It also took me to some of the darkest places that I have ever been.

There was no explanation for this new state.

The other day I finally mustered the energy and called my doctor back about that testosterone test that I had taken a while back. He told me that my testosterone levels were low and could explain the low-energy and bad moods. Apparently this is normal in people with head injuries.

Tomorrow, I pick up my testosterone cream from the pharmacy. So, be prepared the next time I write the topics might be a bit different; possibly about football, working out, tanning, and well, we will see.

The Best and Worst Day Of My Life

2011-09-21T17:46:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is our fourth wedding anniversary. It is also the day, two years ago, that I fell.

Needless to say I have some mixed feelings about September 22. For me it was the day that I married the woman I love. The person that on one summer night 18 years ago in Florida, I met; the start to a relationship that will last my lifetime.

At the same time it is the day that I nearly lost it all. A day that fractured my skull and my family.

It's not an issue of which one matters more. I know which one that is. It's that the injury will be there, for both of us.

Two Sense Short: Cat Crap Fever

2011-08-17T15:39:00.000-07:00

Aimee's Siamese cat, Milosh, and I have had a long, tumultuous past. We became enemies shortly after I moved into Aimee's apartment in Gainesville, Florida ten years ago. Shortly after moving in, I remember waking up in the middle of the night after Milosh jumped on my midsection from the nearby dresser. A few nights later she did the same maneuver, only this time landing on my throat.

Despite the dive-bombs, I still tried to get in good with Milosh. That ended one night while Aimee was at work and I was in the small apartment, bored. I got the brush out and tried to groom her, thinking she would enjoy the pampering, like most cats do. I stroked her coat gently. On my second stroke she hissed and swiped at my face. I reacted and yelled, swiping at her face. We sat eye to eye and declared war.

"You're move Milosh," I said to her.

Milosh, now more than 13 years old, is still making moves doing her best to defeat me.

Today, Milosh implemented a new strategy, this time focusing on my weaknesses; namely my lack of smell.

I came home to a cat turd lying on the kitchen floor. There were stains across the linoleum. I did my best to clean Milosh's mess, but without a sense of smell I don't know where that mess is. I left the house and am now waiting for Aimee to sniff around when she gets home. She has officially figured out a way to chase me from my home. I've had enemies before, but never one as clever and as strategical as this Siamese cat.

Goodyear? No, the worst.

2011-08-16T16:13:00.000-07:00

Scenes from Naked Gun:

Jane: I've heard police work is dangerous.
Frank: It is. That's why I carry a big gun.
Jane: Aren't you afraid it might go off accidentally?
Frank: I used to have that problem.
Jane: What did you do about it?
Frank: I just think about baseball.

Frank: It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girls dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Jane: Goodyear?
Frank: No, the worst.

I can't get the image out of my mind; the scene in Naked Gun with Leslie Nielsen is in the fertility clinic. It's in my mind and has been all day and not just because Naked Gun was a great film but because that is where I will find myself tomorrow.

The visit to the fertility clinic is long overdue. My diminished libido has been something that I kept hoping would improve. My doctor told me to get my testosterone levels tested months ago but it was one of those things, that much like the act itself, doesn't come up often.

I'm not sure, neither is anyone else, what stopped the drive, whether it was losing the sense of smell or if it is a direct result of the injury. I read something that said one-quarter of asnosmiacs (non-smellers) lose their sex drive. Another site, says brain injury can reduce sex drive, and bring about impotency.

So tomorrow, I go to give blood and a sample, and do my best Frank Drebin.

Dryvin and Cryin...

2011-08-11T15:17:00.000-07:00

We made it back from our road trip without aid from a Uhaul truck and trailer. Yet, three days removed and the fatigue will not let go of my mind.

It's such a weird thing to try and explain to people, even those closest to me, how tired I am after any mental or physical activity. It sounds as if I am just some lazy guy who wants to do nothing but get high on the couch and watch reality television...oh shit...maybe I am lazy.

But this fatigue is different. It's debilitating and it screws up my emotions. It allows weird, disturbing thoughts to enter my head with ease. It's like my emotional defenses are down once the fatigue sets in.

For instance, I happened to be on the couch watching some show about whales. A group of activists found out that they had located the mother ship. Big news. They cheered and hugged each other. I sat there crying from excitement.

I told this to a friend and the immediate response was: "Wow, you are so girly."

It's pretty sad when a day of driving results in three days of crying fits on the couch and the tears aren't from some unfortunate events but from a group of salty whale activists celebrating some good news.

In A Van Down By Dinkey Creek

2011-08-08T12:35:00.000-07:00

Brings a tear to my eye...though I'm not sure if the tears are a result of the pic or the depression from being run-down. Either way, isn't she pretty?

Two Sense Short: Comfy In A Campground Crapper

2011-08-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

The screen flashed 'Excellent.' My thumbs scouted the screen looking to match three similar-colored jewels. I was fixated on the game.

Just then I heard a loud belch over the shuffle of flip-flops. The light turns on. And there I sat, on a toilet in the stall of a bathroom at a campground deep in the heart of the Sierra Nevadas.

This would have never happened before I lost my sense of smell. I would not have lasted a minute sitting on the pot, unless it was some kind of an emergency. I definitely wouldn't have been able to put all my energy into some stupid android phone game, that's for sure.

I am now that dude, and will always be that dude, unless my sense of smell miraculously returns. It's pretty crazy to think that the fewer senses I have the more I am at ease and can get lost in the moment, even if that is on the shitter in a shitty campground restroom.

Houses of the Doey

2011-08-02T09:55:00.000-07:00

I've been absent for a bit from this blog. There's been some getting used to the prescription-drug free life. We have also been busy looking to buy a home.

Two weeks ago we decided to call the bank for a home-loan. A few days later we went to see this house in San Diego. One day later we submitted an offer.

Yesterday as we were climbing up the Grapevine outside of LA in 90 degree weather, headed for a camping trip in the Sierras, we got the call from our realtor.

"Doe (my nickname), we got the house," Aimee said before licking a bead of sweat from the top of her lip.

"What?"

"We got the house!"

"I think I'm gonna cry," I said. I did- I now have the emotions of a female a few days before the menstrual cycle begins.

For the next four hours, on our way to Shaver Lake, we talked about the house, about how our luck may be changing. We were so thrilled with the news, that the small puddle of oil that formed underneath the van in the grocery store parking lot barely even fazed us.

Two Sense Short: Propane In The Ass

2011-07-25T15:49:00.000-07:00

An old friend recently bought a Westy-- goes to show he hasn't been reading this blog...thanks, friend!

Anyway, he bought a Westy and is installing a new car stereo. I said I would give him some advice, as I just replaced the stereo in ours. He came over and before he started on the install, he wanted to show me how to work the Westy's fridge by using propane. I was pretty excited. I had heard this was impossible.

So, I stepped into the van and he went around to the side of it, turning the propane tank on. I heard a hiss. Propane was flowing.

"Does it usually sound like that?" He asked.

"Yeah, no problem."

"Does it usually smell like this?" He asked shutting the valve.

"Smell? Uh, I'm not sure."

After a bit of discussion, it turns out that propane is leaking from the valve, and has been since we've had it. That means, that all this time, all these camping trips, propane has been seeping out into our campsite and I had no clue. No idea that I could have been the spark that ignited, not only the van, Artie, and Aimee, but potentially set fire to hundreds of acres.

I went in and told Aimee about the smell. I told her about the hissing sound. She said she always smelled propane but thought nothing of it.

Thanks, love, for keeping me one-step, one lighter-strike, from death's door!

Mexico For A Day

2011-07-20T17:27:00.000-07:00

I made it. I survived a trip to Mexico.

I drove down to Rosarito for the day to interview some residents for a story I am writing about the "false perception" that so many in the states have regarding their southerly neighbors.

I have to say I was a bit nervous going and I'm not sure why. It's like that perception of drug cartel violence has infiltrated everyone's mind and played on everyone's fear. I took all the precautions; left my credit cards here, and only took a small amount of cash. On the way down I actually rehearsed, silently, what I would do if I was kidnapped. Of course, the intense emotional state always has me drumming up the worse possible scenario.

But, the reality is so different, at least today it was. Sure there's a few sketchy dudes walking the streets of Tijuana, and sure you see some run-down shacks and potholes. It's nothing you wouldn't see in a rough part of town here.

Most of all I feel good about my trip. It was probably the biggest solo trip I have taken in the past two years. I even managed to sleep the night before. My condition has improved.

Severe Internal Restlessness

2011-07-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

Is the restlessness associated with coming off of an anti-depressant immediate? Does it creep up on you a couple of weeks after?

These are my questions since going three consecutive nights with little to no sleep. I'm not sure if it's severe internal restlessness or just a heavy dose of stress but whatever it is it's making me so uncomfortable that I need to pop Ambien to fall asleep.

The sleep deprivation is new. In the past two weeks, since quitting anti-depressants, I have felt better. Rage, and irritability are still present. And, I obsess over some tasks. But, my mood is better. I'm up. I feel with it. I am able to laugh longer than a split second. I am happy to be off the pill. But, of course, there has to be something else.

Two Sense Short: The Smell of Grandma's House...

2011-07-14T13:55:00.001-07:00

Today, I interviewed the two guys from Spike Television show, Auction Hunters. They were in San Diego and invited the media to join them at an auction. Outside of Midtown-Mini San Diego Storage facilities, the auctioneer told the two reality-stars that they would not be allowed on-site.

So, Allen Haff and "Ton" Jones decided to give an interview at a nearby Jamba Juice and show some of the goods they found at other auctions in San Diego.

There we stood in the parking lot of Jamba Juice in Hillcrest, Haff and Ton Jones digging out antique fire-extinguishers, and vintage World War II gun holsters. As they did, I asked how they know whether a storage has any valuable items.

"Do you remember that smell you got from your grandmother's house?" Haff asked. AS he he did I unconsciously shook my head, thinking about my now-deceased grandmother and my dead sense of smell.

"Well, it smells like that. A lot of times it's the smell of old antiques. We use all of our senses."

I guess any chance I had at becoming an auction hunter is gone for good.

Two Sense Short: The Juice is Loose

2011-07-11T17:09:00.000-07:00

Aimee threw her back out the other day. She's been on the couch ever since. And, of course I'm always ready to quit for the day no matter how early it is, so yesterday was a "chill day."

We watched a documentary on obesity called "Fat, sick, and Nearly Dead." The documentary followed this one dude around who was obese and decided to only drink fruit and veggie juice everyday for 60 days. While watching the flick, it hit me; I don't taste but I still eat like shit, for example extra extra ranch dressing on my salads, a bag full of Doritos with lunch, and so on.

Halfway through the doc, Aimee and I thought we'd give it a try, not fasting but juicing twice a day. We went on Craigslist and found a high-powered Breville juicer for $75. After, we went to Henry's and bought bunches of Kale, some apples, beets, lemon, and spinach.

The juicing started today. For breakfast we had the kale, celery, apples, and lemon. I'm not sure why I was surprised because I can't taste anything but it was better than I had thought it would be.

So, now when people ask if my eating habits have changed since losing my sense of taste I can tell them that it has.

Side Affects Include:

2011-07-07T15:11:00.000-07:00

My new favorite word is "akathasia." It means "severe internal restlessness."

Do you ever watch those pharmaceutical commercials when they start listing the side affects. Most of the side affects are worse than the damn condition. Well, this is the list of possible symptoms while withdrawing from Wellbutrin. It's pretty damn funny, in a sad, anxious, nervous, and constipated way.

What is funny about it is usually you don't have one or the other, sometimes it can be both. Take the old diarrhea and constipation combo. Such a great combo. One day you're complaining that you have a stomach full of shit and the next you are scared you may have an attack while walking the dog. In that case neighbors see you speed-walking through the neighborhood, with butt-cheeks clenched.

Another funny aspect of this; many of these symptoms are the same symptoms I have from the injury: agression, concentration impairment, dizziness, crying spells, fatigue, irritability, and troubling thoughts--to name a few. This is why I want off. This is why I am curious.

Sorry if this post is full of frustration. For some reason I am so irritable and full of akathasia today.

I'm So Angry... I Wanna Cry

2011-07-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got into it with our landlord. He said he was "aggravated" with me because I wanted to push our appointment, to photograph one of his units for free, an hour later. I told him I was busy. He told me he was aggravated. I said fuck-it, never mind.

For the next two hours all I could do was think of him. My jaw and fists clenched, I punched a wall. On my way to our meeting I listened to The Thermals new album at a deafening level. I pulled up and sat in the car until the song ended. My teeth still clenched. I walked up to the apartment and didn't say more than a few words. He was trying to brush it off. I couldn't let it go. I snapped the photos and walked out.

After, on my way back to the car. His wife came up to me and asked if everything was all right. She said something and the next thing I know a few tears run down my cheeks.

This is my emotional state. It's an embarrassing state to be in.

Rage In Your Face

2011-07-01T17:09:00.000-07:00

It's now day two off the anti-depressants and I saw glimpses of behaviors that I don't want to see. The day started off good. We parked the van at the beach in Cardiff, ate a breakfast burrito, worked, and then I surfed for a bit. Things were good.

On the way home, things started changing for the worse. While driving I became impatient, hanging my head outside of the van yelling at people that were following too close, almost like I forgot that I was driving a 1982 Volkswagen Vanagon during rush hour in Southern California, on the fourth of July weekend..

Aimee had to check out a site for a photo shoot and while waiting I grew irritable and impatient. Alone in the van, I would have little fits. They fits came in one-minute intervals and lasted only a few seconds. Artie kept his distance in the back of the van. He knows what can happen when the impatience and frustration comes on, poor dog.

This is how I am when hungry and tired, and hot. One thing the anti--depressants were good at was masking that frustration and irritability. If the rage isn't quelled then soon I will be running back to the pharmacy.

To Ween Or Not To Ween...

2011-06-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

Today was day one for finding out what I am like without anti-depressants. I'm curious. I've been taking them--Zoloft, Lexapro, and WellButrin-- since a few months after the injury.

On the pills I act erratic, impulsive. One moment I am energetic and the next lethargic. If I look up too fast I become dizzy. I've often wondered if it was the pills or the injury. I know it's probably the latter but I look forward to see what condition my condition is really in.

I spent today running around like a crackhead. My doctor advised me to up the Adderall intake to combat the withdrawal from the Wellbutrin. I worked, washed the van, met a friend, got a haircut, went to the store, and worked some more, all at a frenetic pace. It feels good so far but we'll see in a few days. I just hope that when I find normal I won't find the same thoughts, only more intense.

Checkmate.

2011-06-24T13:40:00.001-07:00

Elliott Smith is playing in the background. I listen to him on my dark days, I have since I was a teenager. Back then I used to put his music on when I was bummed out about a girl, or just bummed out about life. Today, I listen to him to remind myself of those times when I could control my emotions, my thoughts. Back when I had a choice. Today, that choice is gone and I spend days like today trying and make sense of senseless outbreaks. On these days, I wonder if it's possible to make relationships work and how long it will take for someone to find something or someone better. I wonder how I can change but don't find any easy remedies.

Lately I've been thinking about people that have been hurt or sick and have overcome their ailment or injury. Those people do good things. They try and make some kind of difference. But mostly, they appreciate all that surrounds them.

I'm not like them. I never have been one of those people. But, I never had to overcome anything major until now. The first time around, I'd say I was failing; falling into an abyss that I'm not sure I can climb out of.

In the past year and a half, I heard stories and met people who were further along in their recovery. Some of them talked about separation from their wives or husbands, from family members, troubles at work, suicidal thoughts, and an unrelenting depression. I am beginning to see a pattern and now I find myself checking one after another off the list.

Cannabis Conundrum

2011-06-16T15:06:00.000-07:00

About five months ago I went to my local marijuana dispensary and got my medical marijuana card. It didn't take too much convincing, the doctor, or whatever that dude is sitting in that tiny room, took one look at my discharge papers from rehab and signed off.

I thought weed would help improve my appetite, from not being able to taste, and help me relax at the end of the day and stop the constant stream of thoughts. It does both.

Today, I visited my local weed shop.

It's always such a strange experience. There I was standing at the counter. A young-looking girl on the other side. She asked what I wanted. I said something motivational but relaxing. she leaned over and pulled a glass jar full of green buds. She opened the jar.

"Smell that," she said.

"Oh, I lost my sense of smell. It looks good."

"Okay. Well, at least it will taste good," she said.

"Yeah, I lost my sense of taste too."

She looked confused. She asked how. I told her from a head injury.

On my walk back home, I thought about the exchange and why I couldn't just inhale deep from my nose and let out a big satisfying sigh afterward. There would be no awkward silence, no need for explanation, but for some reason telling the truth is my immediate reaction. At first I wondered if it was some ploy to get sympathy, or a desire for attention. I'm not sure if it is both, or if it is neither.

I never thought I'd say this but I'm going to start really trying hard to lie, the next time I'm in a similar situation.

San Diego Uberalles!

2011-06-13T12:22:00.000-07:00

It's been one week since we returned to San Diego. The week has been spent recovering from what will go down as the worst damn road trip I have ever been on. Sure there were no medical emergencies, no missed meals, no time spent in jail, there was just three weeks in limbo, a hot, miserable limbo. Honestly, I wish there was some major malady, at least then there would be a reason to have undergone the torture that Texas inflicted on us.

I know, it sounds dramatic, but I still am unable to sleep. I have so much to catch up on, work, chores around the house, with so little attention span. I sit down to work and a few minutes later I find myself staring at the lawnmower, or joining volkswagen vanagon groups online.

And even though my battle continues to get things in order, at least I am comfortable in my own home, familiar surroundings, and at least I am not sweating like some old, fat, bald man.

Tonight I sit down for what will be my first book review. The book, "Season To Taste: How I Lost My Sense of Smell and Found My Way," is about this woman who lost her sense of smell after getting struck by a van.

I hope it tells me how I can find my way after losing my smell. I highly doubt it.

ExAustin

2011-06-02T16:30:00.000-07:00

We are still in Austin, now waiting for the third mechanic to fix a leak and prevent the van from overheating. Tomorrow will be one-month since we sputtered out of San Diego into the hot, hot heat. Looking back there were so many piss-poor decisions on my part. We should have stopped in El Cajon when the oil pressure light first flashed. I chose to continue. Of course, we could have turned around in Tucson when oil shot out of the engine. Again, I chose to keep heading east. Then, of course, there was Ozona and Caprock Diesel.

Now, one month later we sit in a friend's living room, trying to work and trying to survive. My mood has spiraled downwards in the past couple of days. It's such a strange feeling, this mood. I'm upset but unable to deal with it. I want to think things through with a clear head but my head isn't clear. My thoughts, ideas, feel like they hit a brick wall inside my head.

The mechanic tells us that tomorrow is the day.

Our Return To Ozona

2011-05-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

"You go to Texas on vacation and you leave on probation," said one homeless dude standing in the VW repair shop, looking for some work. The good ol' Texas saying summed up my feelings on the state.

On Tuesday we left for Ozona to get our van. On the four-hour trip with Artie riding in the back seat, the mechanic who had told me the van was ready the day before called Aimee to tell her that it was not. So, we sat in Fredericksburg waiting for a call that never came. Instead, we made the call, the conversation got heated and the mechanics hung up on us.

The next day, we borrowed a friends truck and rented a Uhaul tow-dolly and took off to rescue our van. Our plan was to go to the Sheriff and have him come to the shop with us so there wouldn't be any trouble. The Sheriff's office was located in the Crockett County jail, which is located directly behind the Baptist Church and next door to the Davy Crockett Museum. Just before we walked into the jail door, the mechanics at Cap Rock Diesel called and said the van was ready, except for a few minor issue.

We towed it back to Austin and took it to a cool VW repair shop called Underground VW. When I pulled in two employees came over and started commenting about the smell of diesel fuel.

"Oh, it smells like diesel," I asked.

They shot me a strange look...

"Yeah, I lost my sense of smell...head injury."

I turned away to avoid another strange glance.

After a few minutes, the owner Toby, a middle-aged man with a long, wiry, white beard took a look at the engine and noticed leaks and a handful of other mistakes.

So, after weeks of stress, it turns out the good-ol boys at Caprock Diesel screwed us just as bad as we thought.

And now, we wait for Toby to finish with the van. More importantly we now see the end of what has been the most fucked-up vacation ever.

On a walk to a coffee-shop Aimee mentioned how depressing this blog has been lately. She was right. I now see the end of the middle to this trip and I feel good. Stay tuned. We still have 1,500 miles to travel through 106 degree weather. I'm crossing my fingers.

Last Night in Austin

2011-05-23T14:19:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we say farewell to Austin. The mechanics say the van is running and will be ready to go by tomorrow afternoon. I am ready to head home, have been for weeks. It was nice seeing old friends but it will be nicer seeing my home. I think I'm going to lock myself in a dark room and let my nerves rest and this constant thinking slow to a normal pace, at least for me.

Before we left on this trip I told myself that I needed to test myself. I did and honestly, not to sound weak, but I now feel as if I have failed.

Everyday the emotions build up as my anti-depressants wear off. I feel like I can't hold the emotions back any longer. I see myself getting irritated and I know what that means. It means I need out. I'm crossing my fingers by nightfall tomorrow, we will be on our way towards San Diego.

Day 14: "I Quit"

2011-05-18T13:40:00.000-07:00

I hung up the phone after speaking to the mechanic in Ozona and wanted to hit myself. I would have if it weren't for a young kid walking into the daycare facility next to the coffee shop.

In the past, I wouldn't have been so understanding, not in a situation where I am stuck 1,500 miles away from home.

I came back and nearly broke down.I called Aimee and told her the story. She said that she would take care of it. She told me that anyone in this situation would feel the same. I don't agree. I have lost all confidence. I can't make a damn decision and when I do I question it over and over again. I feel like I am at everyone else's mercy, that I have no control over anything. This is new. And sure, this is probably normal for some people but it's not normal for me. I hate always saying that nobody understands but it's the truth and there's nothing I can do to change it.

Day 13: Austin, Texas

2011-05-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when i wrote that this trip was the turning point for me, the time for me to write about our travels and new experiences. For me, the trip was a chance for me to find confidence in this new state of mind. I told myself that during the trip I would get away from the injury. That plan sure went to shit.

Instead, I sit in a small coffee shop in North Austin, waiting for mechanics 4-hours away in Ozona to install a new engine in a car that they have only seen once. I have some breakdowns and am more indecisive, more unsure, and have no words, no way to express it all. I feel trapped in this town and in this head. A sudden rush of emotions causes my eyes to blur and then it disappears.

To top it all off, yesterday I dropped Aimee off at the airport. She had to get back to shoot two weddings this weekend. It killed me to see her go. It's going to kill me if I don't go soon.

Bent a Rod in Texas...

2011-05-07T09:52:00.000-07:00

That would be a great song title: I Bent a Rod in Texas. Unfortunately, the phrase defines our last four days. Yeah, my shit luck has struck again.

It was a great night camping. We found a small campsite in Sonora, Texas called the Caverns at Sonora. We only had four hours remaining on the road before reaching Austin. We woke up in the morning, took Artie for a walk and threw the ball for him, packed up and hit the road, or, I mean the road hit us.

Leaving the campsite, we climbed a steep hill and a I started to hear a knocking sound from the back engine compartment. I tried my best to think nothing of it. We descended the hill. I stepped on the gas pedal, nothing.

We pulled over, and long story short, the engine was shot.

A tow truck came and rolled the van onto the flatbed truck. Rigo, the tow truck operator, drove up 35 miles to Ozona, Texas.

We pulled into a small repair shop. It had a small office and a large dirt lot where dozens of dead trucks and autos sat, parts missing, hoods open. The mechanic, Mark, wore a black cowboy hat, tight jeans and had a wad of dip lodged behind his bottom lip.

"I've seen one of these before," he said.

Hours later, Mark tells us we need a new engine; the rod was bent.

That night we stayed in small motel with little to say but a whole lot of stress. We awoke, rent a uhaul--Ozona has no rental car companies-- and drove to Austin.

Now, we wait for a new engine to arrive from California. We expect it to get to Ozona on Monday or Tuesday. It is then when the real stress will hit.

I am now convinced that my string of bad luck is not a coincidence but is my fate. I hate thinking all that I've put Aimee through. At least she's still here. I love her.

New Mexico...The Journey

2011-05-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we awoke ready to embark for a trip to Carlsbad Caverns. We had been staying with our friends in Tucson, pampered in a nice house and air conditioning. But, we thought, a seven-hour leg through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and back into New Mexico would be a nice, easy jaunt, not too taxing. Well, we underestimated the work that a typical seven-hour journey is for anyone not driving in a 1982 Volkswagon Westfalia. For us, seven-hours was was more like ten hours. The winds on the plains blew the van around and slowed our already slow progress.

And while the van hung in there and made every mountain climb, I didn't fare so well. I couldn't supress the stress. At times during the drive, I caught myself with a huge smile on my face, other times I found myself hunching over the wheel, staring at the odometer, counting the miles. I didn't eat. I barely drank.

Aimee handled my stress well. She knew when to leave me be and when to make me smile.

I want this trip to be a time when I can enjoy life and appreciate all that I have. I want this trip to be the beginning of our new life.

Today, we will take a tour of Carlsbad Caverns. Tomorrow we head for the Frio River in Texas, to camp, float down the river, and laugh.

Destination: Tejas

2011-04-28T08:59:00.000-07:00

The morning got off to a rough start: I had to fish through piss-water for an attachment to my razor that had fallen into the toilet bowl. But now we are finally ready for two-weeks touring through the southwest. Our first stop: Tucson. I just hope the van can make it over the mountains.

More to come...

Road Trippin!

2011-04-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

My first entry in this blog was just hours before I fell.

The blog was started to write about traveling in our new 1982 Volkswagen Westfalia that we had bought two days prior. It was supposed to be an outlet for me to write something other than local news stories.

My first entry, on September 2009, was supposed to be an introduction of what was to come. I guess it's funny how things can change and instead of writing about road trips, and about our adventures on the open road, I ended up writing about traumatic brain injuries, my traumatic brain injury.

Next Wednesday that will change. That day we will pack up the van, and Artie, and take off for a two-week excursion through the southwest.

I'm excited about the trip, about seeing old friends in Austin, but most of all I am excited to leave this life behind for a while, to write about our adventures, to experience "the great outdoors," and to find my voice.

Speech!

2011-04-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

I am invited to speak about my injury and recovery to a college class at San Diego State University.

I was there last year, same professor but different students. And I will appear with the same group of speakers; myself, and two men with spinal cord injuries.

Last year, my story had just been printed and the professor had assigned students to read my story for extra credit. It was before I was prescribed any medication, and only six months after waking up, so I was just learning my condition.

I didn't feel right then appearing alongside two men that have lived the last ten or more years in wheelchairs unable to lift their arms above their shoulders. This year, I'm not sure if I can find the strength to do the same.

I don't want to appear with the story of a hidden injury, the story of frustration, depression, and uncontrollable thoughts and emotions. I'm sure they have much of the same, though they can't hide it.

Maybe this is a sign of recovery, or maybe I am wanting to keep the injury hidden. I'm unsure.

Judgement Day

2011-04-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

It doesn't take long for the anger and frustration to subside, regardless of what triggered it. I typically lash out, let out a guttural scream, and then it's over. It's the scary thing about a head injury, that the problem is hidden and the injury lurks inside. It doesn't stop. It doesn't change. It's there.

I don't want to allow this, these tirades, to define me. I don't want my children, when the time comes, to live in fear of me. I don't want to see them cower behind big bulging eyes, like my dog does when he hears my scream.

A friend suggested that when I have these thoughts, these outbursts that I try not to judge them. Instead, he says, I should just observe that they are there. With that observation, there will be no definition, and they can no longer remind me of my injury.

I've been trying to become the observer. But the thoughts that make it past the filter are troubling. The visions are ones that I will never speak of. They scare me, not that I would ever act on them, but that they live inside of me. It's hard not to judge things, thoughts, that are wrong.

Sad Girls Club

2011-03-20T16:30:00.000-07:00

I sat in my brown chair, tears trickling down my face. Mounting pressure behind my eyes forced more tears out.

The tears had nothing to do with me. They rarely do. My emotions, or those I have when thinking of estranged family members, usually involve anger, a clenched jaw, not crying.

And the wailing session had nothing to do with Aimee; no friends or family were injured or in danger. I didn't cry for the people in Japan, or because of any local tragedy. Instead the sadness came while watching reality TV. Yes, that's right; a reality TV show.

To make it worse, the show wasn't about addiction, mass murder, or sick kids, or mistreated puppies, it was about some rich guy wanting to donate some of his fortune to charity.

Sure it was touching, but not touching enough to bring about a breakdown.

It was a welcome return to anti-depressants.

My doctor said that it's probably still too early in my recovery to ween them from my system. So, I guess the emotions will are here to stay and I should prepare myself for sob sessions during Survivor, and emotional blathering during Top Chef.

Ween

2011-03-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

Last week I decided to stop taking my daily dose of Wellbutrin. I don't have a good understanding of what the pill does for me. Depression still hits but doesn't hit as hard. The emotional highs aren't as high as they were before the injury. The fatigue hasn't eased.

All of this made me curious if this was the new me. I wondered if the pills are actually helping. So, I decided to quit cold turkey.

For the first two days I felt great. I had energy. I didn't have that feeling like something was holding me back. Then the work week started. I sat down in front of the computer facing a tight deadline. I stared at the screen unable to put a single sentence together. I couldn't focus long enough to read a paragraph, or listen to interviews that I had recorded. I became frustrated. I yelled inside my room. I punched the walls and had fleeting visions of smacking myself.

I told Aimee that I thought I was losing it. She went online and looked up the withdrawals from Wellbutrin. At the top of the list was "lack of concentration, frustration," and emotional outbursts.

That night I went back on the pill. It worries me that I will have to depend on this pill for a long time. I want to see the person that I have to face for the rest of my life. I'd like to know what this injury has done to me.

Do You Smell Dog Shit?

2011-03-02T09:21:00.000-08:00

I interviewed a man for a story yesterday in P-B. As I walked to the small cafe that we were meeting at, I nearly slipped and fell. I had stepped in a pile of dog shit that some dude, probably walking his pit bull, had walked away from. Maybe he was busy tweeting about his dog shitting on the sidewalk, or, composing his next Facebook post. Who knows?

So there I stood, shoes covered in shit, late for my interview. I did my best to rub it off. I shuffled my feet in a small patch of dirt before entering the cafe.

The interview lasted for over an hour. All I can think about was if he could smell the shit on my shoes. I obviously couldn't. I wouldn't know if it was smothered on my face.

'Should I ask him if he smelled anything foul?' I thought as he talked. 'No, because then I would have to explain,' I responded.

The conversation repeated in my head during the entire interview.

Good thing he was a talker.

Jiminy Click

2011-02-22T14:16:00.000-08:00

My recent absence is for good reason. I'm working on another large article. Once again about skating, helmets, and, of course, my battered brain.

Last night Aimee and I went to a new Tapas restaurant by our house. We ordered a few appetizers. She drank some glasses of wine and I had a few beers. We started talking about the article and my beginning outline. I told her my idea to start out with that clicking sound inside my head, the one that sounds when the pieces of skull rub against one another. She liked the idea.

We ordered another round and talked more. We spoke about how sometimes I choose to defend skaters that choose to not wear helmets. On occasion, I still try and convince her that my incident was different than the average skate session. Aimee said it's crazy that after all I've been through that I remain unchanged.

She said she had a perfect title for my article. I asked her what it was.

"Click...click...click until it clicks."

I've been laughing ever since.

Two Sense Short...FIRE!

2011-02-11T09:08:00.000-08:00

As we sat and watched some lame movie that featured Edward Norton in corn-rows, Aimee wrestled herself from her cocoon on the couch.

"I smell fire," she said.

"What? Where?" I asked, all hot from a flood of adrenaline.

I got up from the chair and headed to the clothes dryer, which had been running the entire day. No sign of fire. I went back to the living room. Aimee was still in half-cocoon.

"Well, where is it coming from? I don't smell."

"You still see don't you?" Aimee said. She emerged from her comfy sarcophagus and tilted her head up. She walked towards the heater in the hallway.

"Oh, it's only the heater."

We spent the next five minutes in a playful argument. I tell her that I need a little help from time to time, like when asking me to find the origin of smoke. She tells me that I still can see. I tell her that blurting out that she smells "fire" might just panic me a bit. It's like telling a blind person to watch out, or a deaf person if he or she hears something strange. She laughs at me.

On Your Marks, Get set...Click

2011-01-31T17:13:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to get in better physical shape. I vowed to start exercising every day. So far, it's been an empty promise. The fatigue is constantly with me. It prevents me from adding any more to the already exhausting day to day. A couple weeks ago I told myself that I wasn't going to let it win.

I was proud of myself when I got the old skate shoes out, the surf trunks, and an old cut-off concert tee for a nice little jog around the block. A few strides into it a mild headache would arrive. The ache came from the top of my head, not in the temple like it usually does. Apart from the headache, I would hear little clicking noises, like the sound your neck makes when it cracks. With each stride, as my foot landed on the pavement, there sounded the click.

The other day I asked my doctor about the headache and the clicking noise. He told me that the headache is a result of my skull getting removed. And then he told me the clicking sound is most likely the two pieces of my skull rubbing together, I guess kind of like a fault line in the earth's plates.

He said that I should avoid any "high impact" exercises such as running. He recommended a spinning class.

Nothing against spinning, but it's something that I just can't bring myself to. I can't be that dude.

Gas Huffer

2011-01-26T15:16:00.000-08:00

I was kneeling over a gopher hole, trying to get the "giant destroyer gopher bomb" lit. Sure, I felt bad for slaughtering the cute little rodents but the hundred holes they burrowed in our front yard was the talk of the neighborhood and I had to act. It was my latest obsession. The thought had burrowed it's way into my head. Smoking it out was the other option.

The wick was wet. I had to relight it until it caught. Smoke billowed in my face. I stuffed the 'giant destroyer' in the hole, wick side in. Smoke continued to smother my head as I packed dirt back into the hole.

I went inside and I started thinking, not about the poor moles in their underground dens, but about the smoke that I inhaled.

"Hey, do I smell?" I asked a friend who was staying at our house.

"Do you smell?" He was confused.

"Yeah, like smoke, or gas? Do you smell anything weird?" I was concerned.

He slowly leaned to me and sniffed my shirt.

"No."

I am used to asking people to smell me. It's a weird thing to get used to.

The Advisor

2011-01-18T17:22:00.000-08:00

A month ago, a young skater contacted me. He hit his head while skating. His injury was similar to mine, though he didn't have the complications that I did. I've hung out with him a few times and we've talked about the injury. He tells me it feels good to talk to someone that knows the injury. I feel the same way.

Sometimes, when my friend is feeling emotional and upset he calls me. I listen to him and offer him advice. I tell him to be patient, to follow a daily schedule, and to not be so hard on himself when he has one of his episodes of rage, anger, and depression.

As I tell him these things, I realize that all of my advice is the same that my doctors had told me. They are the strategies that I have abandoned.

There are times that I want to tell my friend that it's hard, that no one, not even a person that has experienced a similar experience, can help. I'd like to tell him, partly out of my own frustration, anger, and depression, that there is no remedy, no quick fix. Time is the only healing agent.

Bottle Up and Explode

2011-01-07T15:48:00.000-08:00

It was the beginning of the day. I sat in my chair. The house was silent. The animals were frozen in slumber, curled up in a ball. The rush of emotions hit me like a punch to the throat. The thoughts, random quick blips of voices and emotions, cycled in my head. There were no tears. There usually aren't. It wasn't one thought that caused the paralysis, it was several.

"I can't do it anymore. I fucking can't do it anymore," I said out loud, like some maniac. The animals opened their eyes for a second and then closed them. I sat still in my chair rubbing my head, thinking to myself that I want to give up, that I am completely spent.

This act is killing me. The act that I've put on since four days after I woke up and called friends and wrote to my editors, pretending like nothing had happened. It's times like these that I want to retreat, to drift off in seclusion, to lock myself in some dark room and not have the obligations, not have to deal with the broken promises, the guilt associated with having a fucked up family that chose to feel sorry for themselves instead of support their son and brother.

This is the real me. The real injury. This is the rage that I harbor inside on a daily basis.

Home on the Ranch

2011-01-03T18:01:00.000-08:00

"You're going to have a heart attack if you keep eating that," Aimee said during dinner the other night.

I would understand her concern if a 12-ounce prime rib wrapped in bacon sat on my dinner plate. Instead, Aimee was talking about the copious amount of Ranch dressing on my salad.

Since losing my sense of taste, I've eaten the same food as I did before. I still have cravings for Mexican food and Pizza. In fact, there's not much I don't eat now that I did before the head injury, except for meat-- I figure why kill an animal if I can't even taste the damn thing.

There are some foods, some ingredients, that I like more than ever. One of them being Ranch, lots of Ranch. And therein lies the reason for Aimee's concern for my arteries.

Her statement did make me wonder why my sudden affection for Ranch. It's not like it's some gourmet recipe that I'm addicted to. Shit, it's not like I would even know the difference if it was. I like it because it is viscous, smooth, and cold.

"Hey, if Ranch dressing kills me then I deserve to be dead," I told her. "Also, can't you just give me one thing? I mean, one food item, out of all the foods that I can no longer enjoy?"

As of now, I will continue to defend Ranch dressing to the death, even if it is the cause.

Two Sense Short: Wet Dogs and Farts

2010-12-29T09:18:00.000-08:00

"You're lucky you can't smell because it smells like wet dogs and farts in here," my friend said after we hopped into his truck.

It was raining outside, the three dogs in the back seat had been couped up for days. To add to the multi-layered shit cake, it was the day after a night of drinking and he was losing an internal battle with his stomach.

He rolled his window down and I just sat there, sense-less.

Normanosmics (read: people that can smell) often say there are both positive and negative aspects to not smelling. But, I'm starting to miss even the most horrible and putrid of odors.

Sure, at times it's good to be Anosmic (read: technical term). For example, it's great that I no longer pick up the aromas in public restrooms, or that I can't smell dog shit as I scoop it up from my yard, or the damned stench from the cat box.

But when you don't smell anything, you eventually begin to miss all scents, even the aroma of dried-up cat turds.

It seems odd to say that I wish I could have known what it smelled like in the truck the other day. It just seems odd that I can be inhaling the worst combination of odors, wet dogs and farts, while sitting with an oblivious smile on my face.

The Sentence Streams

2010-12-21T09:14:00.000-08:00

“It would have been better if you would have died.”

Flying into Denver on my layover, returning from visiting the in-laws in Georgia, the familiar voice streams in my mind. I rubbed the bulge on the side of my head to try and get it out. It wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t loud. It didn't need to be.

As his voice plays on a continuous loop, the anti-depressants numb the emotions. At times there’s this intense rush of sadness. Tears come to my eyes and blood floods to my brain. But nothing happens and all that remains is his deep, raspy smoker's voice.

Steinbeck wrote that the best way to get things out of your head is not to force the thought or memory out but to dwell on it until it disappears. That doesn't work and for eight months that sentence, the tone, has been there.

I told my doctor. She says the non-stop streaming is similar to obsessive-compulsive disorder but instead of actions I get hung up on thoughts and memories.

It makes me think of a man that I interviewed for work. He was diagnosed as “schizophrenic effective.” He said he hears voices in his head, though is capable of not acting on them. I’m the same way but I wish I could act on the voice in order to shut it up for good.

Headbanger's ball

2010-12-14T14:33:00.000-08:00

My neurologist nodded her head as she read my medical report.

"You were a difficult one," she said.

The doctor pointed to a picture of a brain and showed Aimee and I where the hemorrhages occurred. She pointed to the right front side of her head to show me where the two contusions were located.

She explained the injury and then started asking me questions.

"Many patients tell me that they have unusual, violent thoughts. Do you?

"Yes."

I told her about certain impulses I get when I'm fatigued and frustrated. Most include me banging my head against the wall or floor.

We talked about my emotional outbursts. She turned to Aimee and asked how she was doing. Aimee started to cry.

"Have you thought you might have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Have you thought about seeing a counselor?"

I looked at Aimee and fought the tears back. I've done my best to appreciate her and what she went through this year. I tell her I love her everyday and how much I appreciate her but the fact is I am unable to grasp the pain and the hurt that she experienced. Her pain isn't just seeing me with half of my skull missing, a hole in my throat, and violent outbursts but also comes from remorse about my family, and a sickness in her own family.

Seeing her on the chair crying, and hearing the doctor say "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," might be one of the toughest things that I have seen or felt in this past year.

Scripps Mercy, Mercy, Me

2010-12-08T09:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I went back to Scripps Mercy Hospital to get my health records. Before walking in, I passed the valet area where people sat in wheelchairs waiting for their rides. I thought about the first time I arrived at Scripps by ambulance and not having a single memory of it. I don't remember medics rolling me in. I don't remember talking to nurses and doctors. Everything has been wiped clean.

Ten minutes later, with records in hand, I sat down in the lobby and read the initial reports of my injury. Doctors described me as combative but alert. They questioned whether anything happened. There were no signs of injury. I was only complaining about a minor headache. An hour later, doctors said my condition was deteriorating. And that's when they put me out.

I couldn't make it through the entire report. I wasn't emotional. I was curious. I imagined seeing Aimee and my family walk through the doors on their way to visit me. I imagined my father, near a nervous breakdown, standing at the piano singing Frank Sinatra. I thought about my mom praying in the chapel, despite the fact that she is not religious. I imagined the rest of my family witnessing it all. And, I pictured Aimee on her way to the ICU with bloodshot eyes, holding her journal and a cup of coffee.

It hurts because most of my family no longer speaks to me; my dad, my mom, or my brother.

My neurologist and my doctor both say I need to step away and concentrate on recovery, but it's hard when the brain's filter allows emotions to run wild.

Two Sense Short: Old Spice and Body Odor

2010-12-03T09:07:00.000-08:00

"Hey does this shirt smell?" I asked her before throwing the shirt at her face.

She grabbed the shirt and sniffed the area around the arm. Then she made that face, the one where she closes her eyes while trying to cover both nostrils with her upper lip.

She didn't need to say anything. But then again, why wouldn't she? It gives her joy.

"Yeah, it smells. It smells like you rubbed Old Spice on the shirt, trying to cover up the body odor. Nasty."

I laughed. What else is there to do? I laughed not only because Aimee acts as my personal odor-picker-upper, but also because I will be tossing shirts, moldy towels, and shoving rotting food in her nose to see if it is safe to eat, for the rest of our lives. Why this woman stays with me, I have no idea.

As for old Sniffalufugus at thedailysmell.com, turns out after an operation to attach her deviated septum she lost her smell for a few days and couldn't smell her couch which she knew stunk of wet dog.

I know the feeling. Sometimes when I pick up Artie's shit on our walks I fear that some pooh touched my hand, though all I can do is wipe my hands on my pants and then have Aimee smell them later.

The Lab Rat

2010-11-29T15:59:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned my affinity for pleasing people in previous blog posts. I've always beern quick to make plans with both friends and acquaintances. But now that my filter allows things to slide through with ease, my schedule is full, my weekends busy.

After days and weeks of running around, I become overwhelmed and tired. The fatigue is cognitive before it turns physical. The bulge on the side of my head where coiled tendons gathered begins to swell. It's the first sign of a crash. And while not nearly as bad as before, the crashes force me to the chair with blurry and teary eyes and a numb mind.

My neurologist suggested that I not agree to anything on the spot. She told me to respond by telling people that I need to look at my calendar, or, need to think more about it more before agreeing to anything.

She asked me to keep track of all of the plans and commitments that are asked of me. She said for me to write down what the invitation was, my response, and the outcome.

I started last week. It's kind of funny; I feel like a laboratory researcher and the lab rat at the same time. Judging by my commitment chart, this rat is a slow learner.

Carburetor Conundrum

2010-11-24T13:43:00.000-08:00

The other day I was driving to go to a meeting for work. I turned right as cars across the road were turning left. As I pulled up to the stop light I looked in my rear view mirror. The driver behind me was middle-aged with a long Grey beard. I saw him raise his hands and mouth the word "asshole." Apparently, he thought I had cut him off.

I snapped. I turned around and started yelling. I gave him the finger. I yelled the entire time the light was red. He told me to 'fuck off' and gave me the finger and then watched as I yelled inside the van. He reached down and started dialing a number on his phone. The light turned green. I drove slow so that he would pass me and I would have another opportunity to freak out once again. He stayed behind me and got off at the next exit.

This is my rage. A few seconds later, depression takes over.

I brought this up to my neurologist. I told her that my temper seemed to be getting worse. That the new anti-depressant wasn't controlling it. I asked her why this rage was still around and if it was normal.

She said it was. She told me that the frontal lobes control the outlet of emotions. She compared my injury to a carburetor in a car. She said my carburetor was "idling" fast and was not regulating the stream of emotions. It's an analogy I have not heard yet but it makes sense.

In so many ways, I'm not a new person. Many of the traits and emotions were here prior to the fall. Before, I would fly off the handle. Back then, I went out of my way to please people, I made plans when I probably shouldn't have, and I became excitable in social settings.

But now, all of that comes much quicker and easier. It's crazy to see the person you are, without all of the safeguards in place. It's disturbing. I hate it. I never realized how much we depend on those filters. I never realized how bad of a person I was without it.

I am having a hard time keeping it together.

Two Sense Short--Bag O' Shit

2010-11-20T16:30:00.000-08:00

Seven junior high students stood next to me at the front of the class. I had finished my final presentation. The kids all seemed to be interested and kind. One of them asked what was the best skate trick that I had landed. I told him it wasn't the one where I avoid the cracks in the sidewalk while my dog pulls me.

Another kid came up to me. He was a short, mexican dude, his hair spiked with what must have been a bottle or two of hair gel.

"So, when you say you can't smell, like, does that mean you can put like dog shit up to your nose and you wouldn't even know?"

I looked around to make sure the kid didn't have a pile of shit in his hands before I answered.

"Yeah, that's what it means."

"Have you tried it?" He asked.

"Yeah, everyday I put a few turds up to my nose just to see if I can smell it or not."

He laughed. I did too.

As for my nosy nemesis at thedailysmell.com, her latest post has me pondering whether if I should ramp up the wi-fi war. Here's a little excerpt from one of her recent posts:

"I’ve noticed that my armpits stink like the stews I’ve been savoring, despite my use of deodorant. When you can smell yourself, it’s not good."

Is this supposed to make me feel sorry for the human bloodhound; her pits smell like a savory soup?

So, does that mean it's good when you can't smell yourself; when others have to let you in on the fact that you reek, or that there is a rotting carcass at your feet? Does that mean it's good to not ever know if you have a bag of dog shit in front of your nose?

A Picture Story...

2010-11-17T09:26:00.000-08:00

On Friday, I go and speak to students at a school in Escondido. The teacher contacted me in June, a few months after the article came out. She said one of her students died from a head injury. Shortly after, her students began reading my story in class and she asked if I would be willing to go and speak to them, about my injury, and about my recovery. I said that I couldn't. I told her that I was overwhelmed and run-down. I also said I was nervous about speaking in an auditorium to the entire school. She told me that she understood.

Weeks passed and the teacher contacted me again. Her students had written letters and made cards. She came by my house and dropped them off. I couldn't get through more than ten of them before choking up.

The other day I received another email from the teacher, asking if I would be able to come and speak. This time, instead of packing all of the kids in an auditorium, she said that I could speak to 60 at a time in a classroom. I agreed.

This will be the first time that it will be only be me speaking. When I'm not writing, I try and plan out my presentation. It's hard. The emotions that accompany this injury are overwhelming. Having to explain the injury, the isolation from family, the temper, and impulsiveness, is difficult. And, looking completely normal while doing it makes it harder.

I thought about bringing in pictures to show the kids what it was like. What Aimee and my family saw in the hospital, what I looked like weeks and months after; a picture story of what my family and I went through. Here are just a few that I picked out.

That's as far as I could make it.

Another Installment of Two Sense Short: SOLID MOLD

2010-11-11T16:44:00.000-08:00

"It smells so good," Aimee said as we walked to the store. "It smells like," her eyes grew wide. "It smells like fried chicken."

"Thanks," I said. "You know, I really miss the smell of fried chicken."

I do, despite the fact that I don't even eat the damn bird. And even if I did, I couldn't tell the difference between fried chicken and fried dog puke.

It got me thinking how most of the smells I miss are associated with taste. I don't miss aromas all that much unless they are associated with taste, like fried chicken, bacon, and sour cream. I know that last one sounds weird but I miss it and I don't know why.

As for smell, in some cases, it's a good thing I no longer have the sense.

The other day I went to see a lady for an article I am writing. The woman has a terminal illness. She smokes two packs a day and drinks nothing but coffee. The carpet was stained. The table was sticky. The walls were stained yellow.

And there I sat, unaffected. A few times I wondered just how bad it was. I forgot shortly after, and remained in the dirty, liquid-stained chair, next to coffee tins full of cigarette butts.

I guess it's a blessing and a curse.

On to a different topic:

Lately, I've been noticing that my towels have gone missing. I'll see it hanging throughout the day. When I go to take a shower it will be gone.

I confronted Aimee. I asked why she keeps using my damn towels. I tell her that I never notice until after I shower. And then I have to run around the house stark naked for a new towel.

I was expecting an apology from her.

Instead, she admitted to taking my towels. She said she has to take them because they start smelling of mold.

What would I do without her?

Probably smell like a big piece of mold.

The Human Experiment

2010-11-09T19:25:00.000-08:00

Last time I saw my doctor, a few weeks back, he told me that we would have to experiment until we find the right anti-depressant for me. He recommended putting aside the Lexapro for Wellbutrin.

For me, Lexapro, or Lexapoo as I call it, had me in a constant somber state, like a zombie who didn't need to infect. Never high and never low, just middle of the road. It did help in some ways; I didn't obsess as much, and I didn't have as many fits of rage. But, then again, I didn't feel much of anything.

Now, two weeks on Wellbutrin, I see the power of these medications. Today, was the third day that dizzy spells hit each time I turned my head. The spells are something I have never felt before. They feel like I am inside a tire, rolling down a hill. They are quick and overwhelming. They seem to end just before I feel that my legs might give.

The dizzy spells weren't all. Today, rage ruled the day. Whether it was grinning my teeth as Artie pulled on his leash during our walk, punching myself in the face and hitting the walls because the computer was freezing up, it was there, stronger than ever, and more manic than I could imagine.

I'm not sure why I told Aimee about my temper tantrums when she got home, but I did. Her response, like anyone else: "Why didn't you just take a deep breath and leave the room?"

My response: "Because I can't pull myself away. I know what I am doing but I can't stop. The thoughts are there but the action is not."

So, tomorrow comes another doctor's visit, and another thirty minutes of explaining the side effects of a new drug. It might turn out like most visits, where the dosage changes, or a new drug is prescribed. Either way, the human experiment continues.

The Weekly Installment of Two Sense Short

2010-11-03T09:31:00.000-07:00

The other day, my friend, I mean my archenemy at thedailysmell.com wrote a piece about smelling a fart from her neighbor's dog..."I grinned as I caught whiff of a fart just let out by the dog next door that drifted over our eight-foot tall fence. She needs to go for a walk and ate too many peanut butter cookies last night," wrote Sniffaluffagus.

The passage reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend over beers. I hadn't seen her since my accident. After wondering why I chose the cheap domestic beer over the wall of high-brow brews, I told her that I had lost my sense of smell and taste.

Her response: "Do you miss the smell of your own farts?"

It was the first time that someone else had brought up the fact that I can no longer smell my own farts, though, it wasn't the first time I had thought about it.

The subject was broached a while back when I noticed Aimee on the couch nearly gagging after I had unassumingly let one rip, maybe I had too many peanut butter cookies that day. As Aimee squinted her eyes and clamped her mouth shut on the couch that night, I told her how I missed the smell of my own farts. She didn't feel sorry for me, still doesn't.

Now, because I no longer can whiff my own wind, I have become un-sensitized and unabashed about letting them go, whether that's in front of Aimee or just walking around in public.

I get how horrible it must sound but give it a thought; if you lose a sense when comes the point that the sense is erased from the mind?

Head Shrink

2010-10-27T17:51:00.000-07:00

"This sounds ridiculous but I wish people could see the injury more," I told my neurologist.

"It doesn't sound ridiculous," she said. "You're not the only person that has told me that."

During my visit, I told my doctor about my condition. I told her about my impulsion. I told her about the time I picked up the skateboard to entertain my friend's toddler. I told her, after my buddy told me to put a helmet on, how I would run into the car headfirst trying to get a laugh out of the little guy. I told my neurologist that I didn't know what I was doing, that it took a change of scenery until I realized how crazy I was acting.

I then went into the time I made Aimee wait outside for two hours while at benefit attended by local journalists. I told my doctor that I had no idea of the outside world while I was inside the bar.

I asked her whether I was using the injury as an excuse, or, if my behavior was a result of my injury.

She said the latter, telling me that the behavior occurs often in frontal lobe injuries. She said I can get caught up in the stimulus and am unable to tear myself away.

I asked her when recovery will end and normalcy begins.

"You're only one year out," she said. "You are at that middle stage of recovery. You still have some time to go."

I left feeling better about my condition. I felt good I wasn't making it up.

It's nice to know more recovery will continue, not nice that it has to be so slow.

Weekly Installment: Two Sense Short

2010-10-25T17:17:00.000-07:00

Today, my "archnemesis" from thedailysmell.com wrote about traipsing through the coffee aisle at the local health food store for a quick rush of "nose candy." The supersniffer opened one bin and took a whiff and the strong scent of skunk filled her canine-like chemosensory system.

It reminded me of my recent run-in with a skunk, though, my experience was a bit different than the great "odor-picker-upper's."

Not long ago, Aimee woke me in the middle of the night. Our dog Artie was at the door and needed to go out. Aimee got up and opened the door. The dog ran out, the ridge on his back standing straight up. Just then Aimee said she saw Artie go nose to nose with a skunk. A few moments later Artie was rubbing his nose and eyes on the ground and with his paws.

I ran into the office and looked up what to use when skunks attack. I came back with some rags and a bubbling vinegar concoction. Aimee took the items and started scrubbing Artie's face. I stood above them and watched.

"You can't smell, shouldn't you be the one doing this?" She asked, her eyes watering and nose running.

I stood there unaffected by the odor.

Later, after Aimee got out of the shower she asked me again why I wasn't more help.

"Because, I wouldn't know when the skunk's scent was gone," I told her.

"What do you mean? You'd take a shower just like I did and wash it off."

"Yeah, and how would I know if it was gone? Would I come out and have you smell me and return to the shower if it wasn't off? That could go on all night, all week!"

Here's a quick bonus installment:

A few days ago, I went up to Aimee to give her a kiss. Just as our lips touched, Aimee pulled back, her face all contorted.

"Honey, you're moustache stinks kinda like dried snot."

These are the things that happen when you can't pick up a scent, even when it's a few centimeters from your nose.

Your move thedailysmell.com.

The Good Times Are Killing Me!

2010-10-23T15:28:00.000-07:00

A few weeks after I left the hospital I ran into a neighbor on my way to the grocery store. He rode alongside of me in his electric scooter. We talked about our health; I asked him about his recent knee surgery and he asked me about my head. He told me that I had finally become an adult, or, in his words, I had reached manhood. He said it happened to him during the Korean War.

I didn't think much about that statement, not then or in the year since my fall. All that changed when I received this message the other day on Facebook from a young skater:

"I came across your story a few weeks ago. I used to board a lot without my helmet before I read your article. Shortly after I read it, I went out boarding with some friends but I grabbed my helmet. That day I ended up getting speed wobbles near the bottom of the hill and I wiped out. my head hit the ground first, hard. I was confused at first and my head was pounding. I quickly crawled out of the road way and on to a patch of grass. After about 30 seconds or so I realized I fell. I checked myself over and all I had were little scrapes and a mild headache. My helmet on the other hand was cracked. If I had not come across your story I truly believe that I would have not been wearing my helmet that day. I just wanted to thank you and let you know that some good has came from your misfortune."

After reading it, I started thinking about my neighbor's statement. It started to make sense. Before bashing my head in, it would have been difficult to find someone that thought that I had made a difference; actually, it wouldn't have been difficult, it would have been impossible. But after I read this message, for the first time since my fall, I felt like I had done something good. I realized that my neighbor was right that day on our walk together. That maybe it took this traumatic experience, a horribly bad experience, for me to do something good.

Two Sense Short

2010-10-19T19:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, a fellow journalist, and new friend, alerted me to a local writer's blog, thedailysmell.com. The blog chronicles one lady's experience with having a strong sense of smell. From what I read, her strong sense came shortly after suffering some kind of liver ailment.

When I first learned of thedailysmell.com I thought about transforming this blog into one about losing my sense of smell. My idea, akin to hers; I would choose one thing during the day that I wanted to smell most but, of course, was unable to.

'What if we were to become archenemies in the blogosphere?' The super-sniffer and I, vying for the most hits on the olfactory front. Her kryptonite; her weak liver. Mine; my weak and damaged frontal lobes.

And so once a week I will pick the thing I wanted to smell most and write how big of bummer it is to not smell it. I will accompany it with a funny story about missing the sense of smell, just so I don't get everyone down.

The first installment of what I like to call, "Two Sense Short":

Today, it rained. I was talking to my neighbor. He told me how much he liked the rain; after all, there's not much of it in Southern California. He said he liked how it made him feel. He liked the nourishing quality of it. Most of all, he liked that "fresh air smell."

After our talk, I thought about the smell of rain, the smell of fresh air. I tried to take deep breaths through my nose and only felt air entering my nasal cavity. I remembered enjoying that smell too, it reminded me of living in Florida, when rain was an escape to the awful heat and humidity.

Moving on to the second part of "Two Sense Short":

The other night I accompanied Aimee to a work party. There was quite a bit of booze there. I had my fair share of it. Towards the end of the night, I waited in line for the pisser. A few minutes passed before the door opened and out came one of Aimee's co-workers. She is also Aimee's close friend. She looked at me while passing.

"I'm glad it was you that was next in line."

I went into the bathroom. It took me a few seconds until I let out a loud chuckle. She was glad because she knew that I had severed my olfactory nerves.

Now top that dailysmell.com!

All In My Head

2010-10-17T18:27:00.000-07:00

"I just feel sometimes you make it into a big bad injury," she said.

I didn't say a word but my thoughts ran rampant. I was angry. I believed it was another example of someone close to me not understanding the difficulties that I go through. I started listing my deficits; the lack of focus, the impulsion, the irritability, the fatigue, the loss of two senses.

I also had a few other thoughts. Was she right? Do I focus too much on this injury? Has it consumed me? Does it define me?

After a few seconds I responded.

"I can't believe you just said that. It's just another example that no one could ever understand what I am going through. It hurts that I am all alone in this."

The next day Aimee and I went to see my doctor. As we talked, she told him that I am quick to tell people about my injury, about my deficiencies.

He said part of it may have to do with the impulsion that accompanies frontal lobe damage. He also said that it is common that people are unable to move on, incapable of looking at the positive and not the negative, and unwilling to accept the shortcomings.

After my consultation, I walked outside. Aimee was there by my side. I knew that what she had said the day before while walking Artie came partly out of frustration and partly out of necessity.

I focused on the negative before the fall and am doing the same now. Instead of allowing the injury to take over, I need to move on. This blog will change. I'm hoping that my mindset will follow.

A Strong Soul

2010-10-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

A few posts back I wrote about Gabe, who fell from his skateboard while bombing a hill in San Pedro. Gabe was wearing a helmet but still sustained some major head trauma. Doctors removed a piece of his skull, he was in a coma, a story so similar to mine.

Gabe's accident was only a few months ago. He found my story, and then my blog and decided to write about his own experience, recovering and redefining the person that he is.

The kid is strong, smart, and a good writer. His blog is:

http://lectoretemergo.blogspot.com

Thanks for sharing, Gabe.

A Chink In The Armor

2010-10-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

Last night I, along with thirty other writers, attended a fundraiser for Liberia. The name of the event was "Stump the Press." On my trivia team was a funny, and lively lady who writes for the other weekly here in San Diego. We started talking. Naturally, I started talking about myself and about my brain. She wasn't aware of my article and didn't ask too many questions. Today I received a message from her. She had found my article and was crying her way through it. She wrote later telling me that she would have never known what I had been through. It was a nice and kind compliment.

Therein lies the struggle. The fact that people can't see my injury. What my fellow journalists didn't see was Aimee waiting outside for me. What they didn't know was that I became so caught up in the event that I never stopped to think about anyone else.

I came out two hours late. Aimee was upset. An argument ensued. I blamed my injury for not being able to switch tasks.

I know the excuse is wearing thin on Aimee. It's wore thin on everyone but myself. At times, even I wonder if I am making this whole thing up. Am I just inconsiderate? Am I not letting go and reluctant to move on? Or, am I incapable of doing so? Is it all about attention and my need for it? Is it that I have not yet processed the incident and get stuck replaying it over in my head?

There are no easy answers. I go on websites and read how these symptoms appear in most survivors of brain injuries. But then you look at me, and talk to me, and you read my words, and you become convinced that nothing is wrong.

I'm sick of this and I'm worried. I read that during the first year of recovery comes the most noticeable improvements. After that first year recovery slows and improvements aren't obvious. It stresses me out that this is it. That this condition, of being stuck with a list of questions, is all that I will be left with. I'm worried that everything I do and everywhere I go, will revolve around this damn injury, the fleeting thoughts in my head. I'm troubled to think that it might be me making all of it up. I'm troubled.

Friend Request

2010-09-30T16:48:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I logged onto Facebook, something that I do rarely. I can't really get into the whole Facebook thing, it might be due to the fact that I have little to say, or when I do have something to say, I say it in 500 words or more. Not only that, but who really wants to read brief updates about some guy recovering from a brain injury, anyways? My posts would read something like this...

"I had a fit of rage today. I started punching the wall. Crazy." Or, "I lost focus today a few times. What's up with that?"

So, I'm not a Facebook junky like so many others. But, it does serve some purpose. I went on there the other day and saw that I had a friend request from someone named Gabe. Gabe's picture was of him, with a bandage wrapped around his head. He was stretched out on a hospital bed. I clicked on the friend request and saw that he left a message.

Turns out Gabe read my story, after suffering a brain injury in early August. Gabe was in a coma, doctors removed a portion of his skull; basically a story very similar to mine, at least as similar as these types of stories can be. He thanked me for sharing my story and gave me an update on his condition, which considering he was bombing a hill on a longboard and fell, cracking his helmet and head, seemed to be pretty good.

I read his message and responded, thanking him for writing. I gave him a link to this blog. He wrote back later that day saying that he also wanted to start a blog and write about his injury, and recovery.

Instead of calling him a copycat which was my initial reaction (I kid), I urged him to start one.

I write this because it makes me happy. It makes me feel that I can help someone that is going through the same, or similar, not only with the new conditions, but understanding what is a very hard, and confusing recovery.

I didn't know the single thing about this injury when I started this blog and I'm glad that someone going through it can read it and be more aware and prepared. I'll pass on the link when I get it. Thanks, Gabe.

Surprise!

2010-09-23T09:52:00.000-07:00

I heard a car pull in the driveway. I hoped it was Aimee. I wanted to give her the two, five dollar gifts that I bought for her for our three-year anniversary. The gifts were small, one a belt buckle with RV's on it and the other a fake vintage watch. A while back we agreed not buy anything for each other and instead put it towards traveling, put it towards the Westy and future road trips.

A minute later, I heard her putting her key in the front door. I went over to greet her. She opened the door and told me to close my eyes. She led me down the driveway and told me to open my eyes. I did. Leaning against the house was a brand new custom surfboard. My jaw dropped.

I said I only got her a few cheap trinkets from a second hand store. She said that she didn't spend any money.

And that's where the true surprise comes. The board was a gift from someone I have never met, nor spoke to. The board was from a local shaper, Ryan Siegel, who read my story back in April and read that I surfed and wanted to do something nice for me, to give support.

During the next few months, Aimee and Ryan got the dimensions down. They asked my friend Nick McPherson if he could draw something up for the board.

This is something that I will never forget. In a time when most of my family no longer speaks to me, in a time when I have never felt so alone and so frustrated, this happens. It makes me happy to know that these people are out there, not only for what they've done for me but what they will do for others.

Thanks Ryan, thanks Nick, and thank you Aimee. I am fighting back the tears.

Brainiacs

2010-09-21T10:35:00.000-07:00

Aimee and I filled out our name tags and took a seat in the back of the room. We were a few minutes late and introductions had already begun. People took turns introducing themselves. Some were recovering from strokes, cerebral palsy; others from accidents and aneurysms. One man said a cement statue became lodged into his head in a car crash. Then it was my turn...

"My name is Dorian. Four days from today will be one year since I fell from a skateboard and landed in a 19 day coma and damaged my frontal lobe. I've spent this year trying to recover the person that I was. I'm ready to learn more about this. It's my first meeting.."

"Welcome to the family," said one man from the back of the room.

The next hour was spent listening to a speaker give helpful strategies to increase attention spans, retention, and memory while reading. She gave us a list of books to help us better understand our injuries, conditions.

Halfway through the presentation, a woman from the San Diego Brain Injury Foundation approached me and asked if I was the person on the cover. I said I was. She said I looked great and she would never be able to tell. I said thanks.

When the meeting ended Aimee and I walked home. I felt better to know that the shortcomings, the symptoms that seem inescapable aren't all a figment of my imagination. Unfortunately, with this injury it takes being around others with similar injuries to know that all is normal, or as normal as it can be.

Walking on the foot bridge back to our house, Aimee and I held hands. It felt good to know that Aimee was there to help me through it all.

Our three year wedding anniversary is tomorrow. It will be one year since what has been the worst day of my life and three years since the best.

It was great knowing me...

2010-09-02T19:34:00.000-07:00

Twenty days from now marks my third wedding anniversary and my first anniversary of living with a damaged brain.It's pretty obvious that this year, this date, will represent so much not only for me but for Aimee, and my family, even those that no longer speak to me.

The year was filled with confusion, fatigue, fits of rage, apathy, and tears. A year after the fall, I now realize that I am a new person, that the damage inflicted has changed the person I am and will be. It sounds dramatic though it's true.

Every once in a while I visit brain injury websites to help me understand. For the most part, I have spent this year trying to convince myself and others that nothing major has happened. Reading the data, things become clear, the haze, the wonder whether the drugs are to blame, or the injury, or my own internal weaknesses all fade and things suddenly make sense.

One example at a time, the first that pops into my head is apathy.

"Patients who have suffered traumatic brain injury (TBI) oftendevelop apathy. In TBI, the apathy syndrome is characterizedby disinterest in day-to-day activities, lack of future goals,poor participation in rehabilitation activities, and limitedability to appreciate recovery made after TBI," reads one psych study.

I never really knew what apathy was until now. And while no one can notice it, and while I am able to put a happy face on when I need to, it's there. I go through the day on an even keel. The joy that I used to have surfing, playing music, listening to music, going to shows, writing, has vanished. The laughs, the jokes that I used to find funny I no longer can laugh at.

I don't write this in search of symptoms. I write it because I hope that it will force me to accept the person that this has turned me into. That way, when September 22 comes, I might be one step closer to knowing the new me, even if that is a somber soul, who spends his days unfulfilled though not unhappy, not by choice but because of injury.

Senseless...

2010-08-09T20:05:00.000-07:00

Last week I interviewed this man for work. He is old and weak, maybe from the alcohol, or maybe due to his disability, or both. He is also a friendly, kind man who happens to be a hoarder.

Recently he was told that he needed to move all of his belongings out of his house for repairs. He needed help. He needed things moved from inside the house into his dilapidated shed outside. After our interview I offered to help him.

I returned to his house today and started cleaning the old shed, removing the old reel to reel tape players, and antique, rusted clothes irons that were thrown into the shed along with thousands of other items. After twenty minutes of reorganizing the dark and dingy shed, I swept the floor.

He came in shortly after.

"What died?" He asked before covering his nose with his wrinkled bicep.

"Huh," I said, unsure.

"You don't smell that. It smells like a dead rat."

"No," I said. "I lost the sense of smell."

"Oh, well consider yourself lucky."

I started to sweep again. As I did I looked more closely at the pile of dust, lead-paint chips, and dead weeds. In the midst of the pile was the rotting carcass of a squirrel. I swept it up with the dustpan and went back to the task at hand.

I laughed on my way home. I could have a dead squirrel in my pocket and I would never know. I could take a bite of rotten food and not have a clue.

When I got home I told my neighbor. He asked if I had been wearing gloves while helping the old man.

"It might be a good idea considering you can't smell."

"You know," I said, "That makes sense."

I Wanna A New Drug...

2010-07-27T09:01:00.000-07:00

I know, I've been absent for a while. This past month has been filled with me filling prescription, prescribed to ease the symptoms and provide a little push during my recovery. During that time, I've been on Zoloft, Lexapro, and Adderall. There have been ups and downs during my search for the right drug.

The Zoloft provided the needed Seratonin that doctors said my brain now fails to produce. And while it leveled my moods, improved my new OCD's, and eased my rage, it depleted my energy, and depleted my stomach of all contents the moment I swallowed the pill. It put me in a permanent stupor.

I switched to Lexapro. For the first week I was a mess. I acted crazy, and felt a rush after taking the pill. But after getting used to it, I am more awake than I was on Zoloft. I feel better about myself, my moods have improved.

And then there's the Adderall. Crazy drug. Has me waxing cars in fifteen minutes, doing work in the yard at a frenetic pace, and writing fifteen-hundred word articles in a day. But then there's the crash. The crash is hard and miserable for everyone around me.

And that is my little prescription drug cocktail. A month in, I haven't been convinced that it's the right thing to do. I've always been reluctant of taking drugs, at least prescription drugs. They are expensive and have strange side effects. But then there's the other side, the fact that I actually feel the most normal since the injury. I don't think about the injury, about my deficits, nearly as much. I am able to focus on tasks. I don't obsess about things, nor do I have those lingering thoughts that won't escape now matter how hard I try and make them.

It's strange coming to the realization that for now, drugs are the only way I am going to feel normal.

Yosemite...

2010-06-17T17:58:00.000-07:00

Early afternoon, last Thursday, Aimee and I packed up the Westy and left San Diego for Yosemite. That day we sputtered our way through Southern California. Going up the Tejon Pass, the small diesel engine topped out at 34 miles per hour and I had a smile, at least a smirk, on my face the entire time.

I needed the trip. I needed a fresh outlook. I left with the realization that I would no longer speak to some family members for a long time. And while the conversations with those family members played on repeat for most of the trip, Aimee and I rejoiced on the open road.

Even though our rear tire blew while driving through Fresno, the trip, the feeling of the open road, hanging out and having beers with old friends, mixed with talks about future road trips in the Westy kept us excited and laughing all the way.

We needed it. The past few months have been tough. During those months I succumbed to depression. I lost sight of the target. I lost confidence in myself. The trip put it back in focus.

Falling Out

2010-06-08T17:51:00.000-07:00

This recovery is harder than it ever has been. The ups and downs, the obsessive compulsive behavior and poor judgement has nearly sent me over the edge. My doctor prescribed me Zoloft to try and level things out and provide some needed Serotonin. I met with her the other day and gave her an update on my recovery.

Shortly after sitting down in her office, I began to rattle off my symptoms. She told me it was normal and said this stage of recovery is hard, that my brain is still healing and will continue to heal for some time. While it heals, symptoms will remain. She recommended a strict routine to try and overcome my obsessive compulsive behavior, and my frustration caused by my distractibility. I'll try.

It's difficult trying to balance all of this with ongoing issues with my family. They say their feelings are hurt. They say my irritability has offended them. They have said hurtful things in return, things that I would never believe possible. Aimee keeps telling me that they just don't understand the injury. I didn't expect any of it to happen. It makes this whole thing almost impossible to handle.

We leave for Yosemite on Thursday. I need to escape.

Too Fast Now Furious

2010-05-17T19:28:00.000-07:00

Artie was in his bed, his ears pasted back, his eyes droopy. He was scared. In the other room, Aimee sat in her white oversized robe trying to stop her tears long enough to finish putting on her makeup. In the living room the cats hid underneath the old oak record player. I stood in the kitchen with my teeth clenched. I hit the wall with the side of my fist. I screamed out in anger. By the time Aimee came out of the room to check on me, I was on the couch crying.

"I'm losing it. I am fucking overwhelmed. I can't think straight," I said to her. This was the climax. The point when the frustration over my new life, my new weaknesses, exploded.

The frustration had been mounting for weeks. Not having focus, or getting sidetracked each day with some new meaningless task, or the constant fucking thoughts about this injury, about my inabilities, about my fatigue; it mixed with everyday stress.

Three days into it, burdened by the depression, I told Aimee that I needed a break. I told her that going back to work six days after waking from the coma, rushing to get back to my life, avoiding idle time, wasn't an easy strategy for a hard recovery. Looking back, I see my errant ways and I fear that only now am I beginning to pay for them.

I see that I am unable to say no to new things. I see that I am unable to switch tasks. I see that I can't control my thoughts. I notice how weak my mind is. I see the ironies; being 'unable to switch tasks' is more than getting fixated on a little project, it's getting fixated on my overall routine, my new life, depressed and stressed.

And while this weekend's little breakdown resulted in some tears for Aimee, some uneasiness for Artie and the cats, I worry what it might turn into not only for them but for me as well.

The Celeb With A Dented In Head

2010-05-13T11:58:00.000-07:00

I stepped up to the counter to pay the cashier the ten bucks for a car wash. A lady in her twenties stood at the register. She took my slip and stared at me.

"It's you," she said. "It's you."

"It is," I said, not sure how to respond. "It's me."

"It was you on...you wrote the article..."

"Yeah, yeah, that was me."

Tears welled up in her eyes. She started to cry. She said her friend was in the hospital when the story came out. She told me her and her boyfriend cried while they read the story. They just got a new puppy and her boyfriend always ran the dog next to his skateboard. That ended after they read my story.

I was speechless. I didn't know how to respond. All I could say was thanks. She said I looked good. I took it that she meant that I looked better with a complete cranium.

These past 7 months have been the strangest months of my life. I'm not sure how to move on.

Shudder To Think

2010-05-10T20:21:00.000-07:00

We watched Shudder Island last night. It was disturbing. Not because it was scary but because it made me feel crazy. The movie brought back memories from when I was in the coma, or when I was coming out of it. I felt like the main character living a false memory.

The memories seemed so real and still do. They were vivid and they lasted for what seemed to be days. I still can describe the faces, the places, the anxiety, and the pain. Whether I was a newscaster, a documentary film maker, or, a prisoner held against my will, they were my only reality during weeks of nothing.

We paused the movie and I asked Aimee about those memories. She said it was called confabulation. It results from a cerebral disconnection. She reached for her computer and read from a website. "Patients recovering from coma after a traumatic brain injury often start by retaining bits and pieces of information; hallucinations" she read.

It was strange watching a movie about mental illness and actually understanding what that means. It made me realize that I will never be removed from it. I am disturbed to think that those false memories will haunt me for the rest of my life. I'll carry them along like childhood memories. It freaks me out that on the outside no one will ever tell that anything happened but on the inside I will always have those false realities waiting to resurface.

I Ride...

2010-05-06T19:35:00.000-07:00

It's been eight days since the newspaper with my face on the cover was replaced with a new edition and yet, the response continues. I found out yesterday that the story is getting a thousand hits per day, making it the most read story so far this year. I never expected to reach a wider audience. I'm amazed it's happened.

I received this message today from a school teacher in a different city in the county:

I am a middle school teacher. I read your amazing story "Broken Skull, Broken Heart" and just had to share it with my students and the other english teachers I work with in 7th grade. My students and I read your entire story. It took us a week and a half to get through it, but it was like a reward to them. When we were finished with our other work they begged to continue reading about your crash and recovery. They were incredibly taken by your inner strength and Aimee's love and support. I lost a student 2 years ago to a skateboarding accident, so my students are very aware of the severity of these types of brain injuries. Would you consider coming to speak to our class or classes? We would very much love to have you here and be able to meet you.

This is the first time in my life that I feel like I am doing something for the greater good. Too bad it took me nearly losing my life to do so.

Ex-Austin!

2010-05-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

While a four piece country band played in the background, we stood in line next to the bar waiting to purchase two tickets for “Chicken Shit Bingo.” I turned to Aimee, who stood behind me.

“I love it here," she said with a huge smile on her face. "Let’s move to Austin." Aimee picks the funniest moments to show her appreciation for places, such as while standing in line for Chicken Shit Bingo.

After we bought our tickets, we stood outside drinking Lone Star beers. We stayed there while the crowd stood around the makeshift bingo table waiting for the chicken to shit on a number. The chicken picked the wrong number.

It was the perfect way to end our four-day trip to Austin.

The trip started off at some bar on 6th Avenue that supposedly serves the "best" burgers. We stuck to our guns that night and ordered a veggie burger and fries. By the time we were done, the patio was full with dozens of old friends from as far back as 20 years, some of which I hadn't seen in half that time. We drank beers. Some had shots. We all smoked cigarettes as we laughed at the old days and caught up on the new ones. Most asked me about my brain with worried faces.

That night ended for us at last call. It ended for the others when the sun came up; the same way most nights were spent.

Some highlights of the trip: A rehearsal dinner at the world famous, Salt Lick Barbecue, or as I referred to it as; "The Great Salt Lick," poolside with beers, Chicken Shit Bingo, Barton Springs.

Austin got the best of us during our exhausting four day trip. Most days were spent trying to meet the requirements that one must do when in Austin such as eat barbecue, despite not eating meat or lacking the sense of taste; drink beer and smoke cigs, even if your tolerance is low; and swim in Barton Springs.

We did all of these things and more. A well-needed vacation. Of all the highlights, hanging out with childhood friends and watching my old friend tie the knot with a new friend topped the list.

Doctor Stone Strikes Back...

2010-05-01T08:54:00.000-07:00

I would have died if not for my doctors and nurses at Scripps Mercy. The damage inflicted on my brain would have been much worse if not for those same doctors and nurses. I appreciate all they did and what they do for a living.

When I was transferred to another hospital for in-patient rehabilitation I had a new doctor. I wrote about him in this post and in several others. I didn't like him for several reasons. Despite the drugs and the damage, I didn't hear anything in his voice or I couldn't see anything in his eyes that showed any kindness. I saw status. I saw a conceited, smug man.

I remember as my frustration grew, I requested a meeting with Dr. Stone. He sat down on a chair next to my bed. He looked annoyed. I asked him if he was going to write my concerns down. He said no and then reluctantly took out a sheet of paper. I told him I wasn't benefiting from the rehab. I told him I wasn't learning anything about my condition. He left the room after I was finished. My family was waiting in the hallway. He shook his head and said something about my poor attitude.

I mentioned him, not by name, in the article. He wrote the following letter to the editor.

What An Insult

I was insulted by your article “Broken Skull, Broken Heart” (Cover Story, April 22). I was one of the physicians caring for Dorian. The derogatory depiction of his medical care and physicians in particular was in poor taste. Your readers have no idea of the time, skill, care, and interest myself and others had in trying to provide medical, advice, support for him and his family. It is clear he is and probably always was an insecure, angry, and self-absorbed person. Trust, I had no economic gain in his care, and I am unsure I have ever been paid. Someone should have edited this article. He comes across as an immature, careless person. The article does nothing to educate the public about the social, personal, neurologic consequences of brain injury, which are substantial. The Reader missed a great opportunity to help the public understand this endemic problem but settled for a hit job on the medical community.

Name Withheld by Request
via email

Thanks for the confirmation, Doctor Stone. Even brain damage can't blind a person from seeing the man you are!

Class Dismissed

2010-04-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

I was terrified as Aimee and I stood outside a portable classroom at a local high school today waiting for the third period to start. High school kids shuffled their feet in small cliques on their way to class. Nearly all of them looked down at their ipods as they spoke.

The other day one of my old therapists from rehab contacted me and asked if I'd like to attend a presentation to high school students about brain and spinal cord injuries. My therapist said that I didn't have to speak, only watch and see the program in action. I agreed.

Moments after the bell rang, Aimee and I walked into the classroom. It was like stepping into a time warp. I haven't been in a high school classroom for sixteen years. The chatter, the laughter, petty squabbles were all I could hear. My stomach felt uneasy.

We sat near the front of the class. My therapist gave a presentation on brain injuries and spinal cord injuries before introducing the first speaker; a man who at the age of seventeen was paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident. From the center of the room, the man spoke about his injury. He spoke about his recovery and having to adapt to no longer having the use of his legs. He was confident. He joked about one of his ex-girlfriends accidentally touching his condom catheter. His presentation was inspirational. The students asked questions. They asked about sex, driving, and accessibility. As he spoke, my former therapist asked if I would like to speak. I agreed.

Next it was my turn. I stood at the front of the class and talked about the fall. I said it was something that I did almost everyday, that I never once thought that I would wake up like this...I flashed the class the picture on the cover of the paper. I saw some of their mouths open.

I spoke for about ten minutes. My voice quivered. My thoughts wavered. They laughed a few times. At the end, they asked me questions. They asked if I had any loss of appetite since losing my sense of taste. I said no. Another person asked if I had surfed yet. I said yes. The last question was about the scar and the skull. And that was the end of the presentation.

I walked back to my seat. Minutes later class was dismissed.

I walked out of that classroom feeling great; still a little nervous but I felt like I had done something for the greater good.

I thought about the week since this whole article has been out. I had never expected anything to come from it. I never thought that it would be the spark that was needed to do those things that I wanted to do, to help and to try and prevent one person from going through the same; to prevent one family from having to watch their son or daughter sit with a blank look, watery eyes, and a caved-in head.

This is my opportunity. I need to take it.

Head Shot

2010-04-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

You take a shot to the head and next thing you know you have a head shot on the cover of a paper. The article came out Wednesday and now 161,000 copies are strewn throughout the county at gas stations, outside liquor stores, and inside newsstands. For two days now, fear and anxiety has paralyzed me. I read the story over and over again. I wait to see the comments and I hope they are kind. My anxiety seems to be all for nothing. People I have never met, people that live across the country, leave words of encouragement and support after reading. They use words like 'inspiration' and 'brave'. Words that have never accompanied my name before. Some share their tragic stories, others just give me their support. I didn't see any of it coming.

When I woke up from my induced slumber, I saw the outpouring of emotion. I heard about neighbors coming by to get updates. They gave us baskets of fruit and nuts. Most of these people I hadn't said a single word to, maybe just gave them a wave as they drove by. The response is similar since the story came out but this time, it's from people I don't know, have never met. It's sad. It's taken these comments and well wishes to once again see how amazing people are. I want to learn how I can hold on to that knowledge. And while they say I am inspiring, that seems to be the only word that I can use when I read their words. Here's one of those comments. It brought tears to my eyes when I read it.

"I never do this, write to somebody about something that I have read or anything that I see on the web, but not today, today is different. I felt the need to express my self to you, it was rather difficult and painful to read your piece in The Reader today.

I was in a car accident 13 years ago, I was wearing my belt that's why I am alive today, my friend who was driving, wasn't wearing her belt and did not survive. I still live with some pain from that time, but you make me remember how important life is and how delicate we are!"

This is what I hope to take from this. This is what I need to live by. It's becoming less about recovery, and more about new beginnings and it's about time.

Filling The Wormhole

2010-04-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

Two days and counting until my face, skull missing and all, will be plastered on the front cover of the weekly newspaper I write for. I'm nervous. Not just about the picture, which is pretty disturbing, but I'm nervous about what the response will be, if there's any at all. It was a difficult task; writing about something that I fail to understand and am still unable to grasp. Those weeks and months after the coma were filled with numbness and pain. At times I had no thoughts just watery eyes, a dented in head, and an open mouth.

How do you explain the unexplainable?

The upcoming cover story has caused us to talk about the injury much more often than in recent weeks. Aimee has cried. I asked her ridiculous questions. I asked her why she didn't fall out of love with me. I asked her if seeing me in that weakened state made her think I was weak. She said no. She asked me if I would feel that way if it was her. I said no. Truth is, I don't know how I would handle it. I wasn't awake to see her face, her tears or her smiles. I wasn't awake to hear the sounds, to smell the odors, or see the look on the doctors faces as they tried to explain the situation. The entire experience has left a black hole where memories should be and I will never have anything to inject in that wormhole except for a cover story, Aimee's journal, and the stories I have heard. We'll see if I can stuff anything else in by the time the week is through.

Can't Stop My Brain...

2010-04-11T17:17:00.000-07:00

Things are finally slowing down. During the past couple days I was able to enjoy myself. I had a few drinks with friends. I surfed. I avoided the stress that has been with me in recent weeks, the same stress that has kept me from posting, and has had me running around from chore to chore, place to place.

It was a welcome change from the everyday stress that I can't seem to get away from. During the past few weeks I haven't stopped. I didn't relax. My days were filled with distractions and chores.

The hardest part is I know this feeling is normal. People have long lists of chores, whether at home or work. I had the same list before the blow to the head but it doesn't feel the same. I feel overwhelmed and stressed most of the time. I find myself asking myself: 'Where does the injury end and where does normalcy begin' When will I get used to the new me? Am I creating this or are the distractions and the poor focus real?'

I don't know. What makes this so difficult is aside from the small bulge on my right temple, and the scar that is now covered by hair, there are no indications that any of this ever happened but my mind is not the same and no one would ever know. I know I need to move on but I am unable to. I don't have a clue how to put this past me. I consider myself crazy as I pace from room to room reminding myself the things I need to get done, or when I get stuck on one task and am unable to stop.

Aimee tells me to get help. I tell her time is the only thing that can call an end to the invisible battle inside my mind. I hate the thought of complaining about everyday life and I know that I need to relax but I find myself unable to think rationally. I no longer am able to prioritize, I just go and don't stop until I can't go any longer.

The Time Continuum

2010-03-19T18:29:00.000-07:00

Time is speeding up. A change of pace, compared to the way that the last six months of my life have lagged. In the early stages of recovery, time slowed to a crawl as I got to know the person that this injury had turned me into. It slowed even more as I fought the new traits, the depression and the rage.

But the past few weeks I have gone from first to fifth gear with no warning. And now my days speed by in the wink of an eye. I've learned that not only does time fly when you're having fun, time also flies when your recovering from Traumatic Brain Injury.

The decreased attention span, lack of concentration, distractibility, and impulsiveness act as time's propeller. I sit on my couch, computer in my lap, trying to write. Frustrated by my lack of concentration, I get up and brew some tea, or get a glass of water. Different chores that I need to do start flooding my mind. I sweep. I mop. I can't stop. Artie enters the kitchen and I take him out to the back alley and throw the ball for him. Fifteen minutes later I come back inside and finish my chores in the kitchen. After, I return back to the couch and force myself to write for another brief interlude. Once the attention span wanes, I get up and repeat the whole thing over, just different chore in another room. Before I know it, the day has come to an end. I have accomplished a long list of little items, nothing substantive, nothing meaningful.

It's a debilitating feeling, and it tells me that I have entered a new phase in my recovery. The time has come to defeat the fleeting thoughts and the obsessive compulsions, to slow the pace. I thought this recovery was hard before, I was right, I thought it would get easier, it hasn't, just different. It's hard not to want to quit everything. I want to sit and do nothing as a way to stop the thoughts and the endless tasks. I know I can't but I wish I could.

Tasteless

2010-03-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

People freak out when they find out that I can't taste. After they lift their jaw off the ground, they ask me ridiculous questions about my appetite and how I manage. I respond by telling them I have no choice. I remind them that I need to eat in order to survive.

Some people have asked if I miss it. Sure, I do but again there aren't any solutions and I don't remember different flavors, maybe that's because of the coma, the brain injury, I don't know.

Today, as I heated up some fake chicken strips, the directions suggested adding some sauce for better results. After reading it, I found myself scouring the fridge and the pantry searching for the right flavor combination. I found some cajun sauce that Aimee found at our nearby farmer's market. 'This should work,' I thought. The next thought that came to my head; 'why do I care? I can't taste."

I realized that the answer to everyone's questions about not having taste; I don't remember that I don't taste, not until that first bite, or when someone tells says how good something tastes and then it's time for one of my classic "no taste" joke, which keep getting funnier and funnier each time.

Smooth Salesman

2010-03-11T20:45:00.000-08:00

The motorbike is still in the driveway. It hurts to see it just sitting there. I've had one guy come by to look at it. Fifteen minutes before he showed, I started the bike to let it warm up. I noticed the battery was weak. I let it run thinking it would charge. I turned on the headlight and the bike died. It was out of juice. I sat in my driveway and tried to kick start it over and over again. Nothing. I panicked. I started pushing it down the driveway to jump start it. Still nothing. So I pushed it down the street and jumped on. No go. I called the guy and told him that the battery was dead, that I was injured and haven't ridden it in six months. He said he still wanted to check it out. When he got to my place, I tried to start it again and it revved right up, like the whole thing had never happened. He looked at it and at me sweating profusely from the ordeal and then he offered me $625. I had it listed for $1100. I wanted to grab that little clump of hair under his bottom lip and rip it out. Instead I said I'd let him know and he left.

I don't know what upsets me more, having to sell the bike, or knowing that I won't get what I think it's worth. The former, I guess.

Music Reviews from a lame brain...

2010-03-08T20:06:00.001-08:00

Recently, I have been writing music reviews for the paper I work for. And while writing is harder than it was before (it was never easy), reviewing music is especially difficult. Not only do I have to concentrate on the music but I have to concentrate on writing something about the music; a double decker of concentration. For a person with little focus, at times it feels like the second deck has collapsed on my head. Here are a few...click on them and read for yourself.

Miss you motorbike...

2010-02-28T17:35:00.000-08:00

Chalk up another victory for Aimee and for my family and friends who have said that I shouldn't ever hop on my 1972 Honda motorcycle again. I don't have the energy, or the strength to fight them. In recent months, I looked for someone who agrees with me that riding around town isn't a big deal. I haven't found that person yet.

Here are my thoughts. Yes, I smacked my head hard and almost died. And yes, another blow to the cabeza wouldn't be good. And yes, riding a motorcycle is more dangerous than driving a car.

So where does that leave me? This injury has already taken enough. Should I stop the things I enjoy because something might happen? Should I not leave the house because my brain took a hit a few months back?

I work from home, I don't travel far, sometimes a mile from my house is the furthest I'd go on my motorcycle for months. I used it to go to the store, to go to interviews by my house. I took backstreets. I enjoyed every second of it, expect those occasions when the bike wouldn't start and I had to push the thing uphill on the sidewalk.

I conveyed this to Aimee and she didn't agree, neither does anyone else. I see their point but I have a couple opinions on the matter. First, I should be grateful I am not dead, or that my brain is not severely damaged and I should not take any unnecessary risks that might jeopardize that good fortune. My other thought, is yes I almost died, and yes I should be grateful to be in the condition I am, but I should take advantage of that condition and enjoy life as much as I can. Being overly cautious will only remind me of what could have happened and this experience will never leave, just haunt me until the bitter end.

So today, I posted my bike on Craigslist. I barely could bring myself to do it. It looked so good shined up, and it felt so good to kick start it and rev the small two-stroke engine. I kept thinking about trying once again to convince Aimee but I know what she will say. I know too well what she looks like right before she cries and I don't want to bring her to tears again. I think she's shed enough. I guess it's my turn to shed tears, for my motorbike. I'm going to miss it.

Oh No, Mr. Bill!

2010-02-24T19:26:00.000-08:00

I get stressed over almost anything, nowadays. Stress is by my side throughout the day as I sit and write. I rush through things that I shouldn't because I am freaking out about time and crossing tasks off my list. I get discouraged for not focusing, for not researching, or reading, or making my words fit together as I once thought they should. There's stress when I take breaks to throw the ball for Artie or when I sit down for lunch. Stress has taken the place of fatigue, just another actor in what is one very complex play. Now, my everyday life is full of stress and that stress has increased over the past few weeks. The old me would have expected that something would go wrong. The new me has trouble thinking things could get much worse.

So, as medical bills once again started arriving in our mailbox, the stress increased. I knew there would be bills. I didn't think there would be different sets of bills. Naively, I thought paying the insurance deductible would be the end of it. The old me would have known better. The bills coming in now are a different breed, they are from the doctors and from the procedures that are out of my "network." It's strange considering some of these procedures occurred when I was in the coma; like the tracheotomy, or the cardiograms, or the list of other things. I wasn't exactly in the position to choose the caregiver.

The worst part about it, apart from the cash I have to find, is that I have never been so confused in my life. I am oblivious to so many things now, like I live in a world where nothing else can go wrong, where the unexpected will never occur again, where all that can go wrong already has. I am unprepared for what will come next, whether that be more bills, any unfavorable news, or just what was once an average day of work. Most of all, I am unable to handle the stress that comes with it all. I know it's all in my head, it just feels so out of reach...

Movie Review From A Lame Brain: The Ugly Bones

2010-02-22T14:35:00.000-08:00

I've seen my fair share of movies in the past week. What else is one to do when their anti-social behavior is starting to take hold? I watch movies. I've seen good flicks. We saw Crazy Heart. Who doesn't want to see a depressing flick about a drunk, washed-up country singer? I do. We saw It's Complicated. It was good, surprisingly good. I would expound on these movies, throw some neurons their way but I am not going to. Instead I'd like to focus on one movie. This movie deserves some time, some hatred, some bad press, even if only a handful of people are reading this thing!

The Lovely Bones is the latest Peter Jackson flick starring Mark Wahlberg, Susan Surandon, and Stanley Tucci. Sounds good so far, you say? The movie is about a young girl who is murdered by some neighborhood creep. Sounds good, right? The creep likes building doll houses. He also likes devising intricate ways to kill unsuspecting little girls. And while the plot sounds disturbing yet entertaining, this film is laughable, possibly the worst movie I have ever seen. Peter Jackson and the cast should be embarrassed, ashamed, and banned from Hollywood. This movie drags, following the dead girl in a purgatory full of cornfields and gazebos, running around with all of the other little dead girls. I'm not sure what's worse, watching the girl float around in purgatory, or watching Mark Wahlberg and Susan Surandon try and act. As for Stanley Tucci, maybe the worst actor in the history of the silver screen, Jackson should have taken inspiration from Bilbo Baggins in Lord of the Rings and called Tucci's character Dildo Baggins, it would have been a perfect fit.

The worst part about this flick is you can't even laugh at it, you just fast forward through the whole movie waiting for it to get good. It never happens. I'm not a huge Lord of the Rings guy, i mean, I watched the movies but didn't immediately begin to idolize Peter Jackson like so many other people did and I am glad I didn't, because The Lovely Bones shows he has the tendency to suck.

I give this flick a quarter neuron...one of the worst things I've seen ever...

The Argument...

2010-02-17T20:24:00.000-08:00

There's been some talk recently about me going to a neuropsychologist to address the rage, depression, and frustration over not having any focus but I remain reluctant, for a couple of different reasons.

To start with, there are no clear cut answers to this injury. There doesn't exist a time line I can go by. No one knows when, or if, my smell, taste, focus, will come back and nobody can tell when, or if, this surliness will disappear. It's just this vast gray area and these estimates of two to six years until recovery is realized.

I have done this all before and I don't see any need to relive the past. I saw a neuro-shrink when I was in rehab. She was great. She told me about the condition. She told me it would get worse. She told me there was nothing I can do but try to be the person I want to be. She said this injury would change me. It has.

I can see if I couldn't get out of bed, or if the dark thoughts stayed through the day, but I do rise out of bed in the morning and that despair is often overcome by laughter and delight. It would be great if I never felt depressed ever again and it would be great having control of my thoughts, but this is my life now, and I will do my best to regain that control. I don't get how hearing someone else repeating this serves any purpose, other than to line their pockets. It will just be someone else that doesn't understand, unless they smack their head hard enough, then they'll see that they are the only one that truly knows.

Singing The Blues

2010-02-15T20:30:00.000-08:00

I am working on a brief article about a blues musician who was diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer last year. On September 22, the same day my wheels stopped at a crack in the sidewalk, this blues guitarist had his vocal chords removed. He has spent the past five months undergoing radiation treatments and learning to live with no voice.

Through the whole thing, he has continued to strum on his guitar, absent of any harmonica and no accompanying vocals. He has appeared at benefit concerts meant to help him pay his large, outstanding medical debt. In a few weeks he flies to Prague to attend another benefit show.

In our back and forth emails you could almost hear his excitement and respect for all the support as well for his second chance at life. He used phrases like "happy chappy" in his message. This man, learning to live without a voice, seemed so grateful.

Just another instance where I am left feeling like an ingrate. I cry about my lack of control, about my fleeting focus, depression, and temper brought on from this injury. I feel sorry for myself and hate what this accident has done to me. Meanwhile here is this man, unable to speak, sing, or play the harmonica but still upbeat and positive.

It's sad to think about this lifelong blues musician left with no voice to sing the blues, the one thing he truly loves in life, while I sit here singing the blues to myself everyday, every chance I get. It's a tune I need to change but am unsure how to change keys.

Rut's Wrong...

2010-02-12T18:01:00.000-08:00

I'm stuck in a rut. Days have gone by and nothing has been accomplished. I try and revisit the routine I had before bashing my head in. I walk the dog in the morning. I do beginners yoga when I get back. I eat a small meal and make a hot cup of tea. Until 9:00am I feel good. And then I sit down for work.

Today, I tried to focus on the story I am writing. I read emails but halfway through my thoughts wandered. I started outlines but never finished them. I tried to read the spreadsheets but couldn't get past the first few lines. I need to conduct interviews but I am reluctant to leave the house.

In my previous life, I called this procrastination. In my current life, it is just the way it is. I hate it. Every thought is like a flash of light. After it disappears another one enters my head. There are no deep concepts inside my head. I have nothing to say but the obvious. I have no opinions worth sharing-- some would say this is a good thing, I know.

If this continues much longer I will need help to regain my focus. I don't know how I will do this. I don't know if it can ever come back. If I try to work on it, will it be another box on my checklist, next to 'meditate', 'exercise, and 'rest'? Will this be another empty box?

The hardest part about it is I don't know if this even is a rut. There's a big chance that this so-called rut is my new home and there's a good chance I will never get out of it. If that's the case I fear what may come. This rut is too small for this depression to take refuge in. That's rut's happening here...

The Weatherman...

2010-02-10T18:17:00.000-08:00

Another storm system blew through Southern California yesterday and along with it came that same pressure inside my head. The storm wasn't as intense as the last one and the headache wasn't nearly as bad, it was just there from the night before the storm hit until the last drop of rain fell to the ground. I saw the forecast and knew rain was expected a few days before it came. I know now that there isn't any need to check the weather. When a storm is brewing funny things happen inside my head.

The night before the rain arrived, we headed over to our friends house for dessert and a glass of wine. I chose the most expensive dessert on the menu; a nine dollar dessert- quite the waste of money considering I can't taste a thing.

On our way over, I found myself squinting on the road. My reactions were slow. My thoughts were as well. I got out of the car and told Aimee I thought my reactions lagged. She told me I was always a bit slow. When we arrived at the house, I felt fatigued. I had a hard time focusing on the conversation. When we left the pressure started and remained until the storm was gone.

I got to thinking that I should be a weatherman. I would be a hundred percent if any changes in barometric pressure and I could use all of my special new gifts during the report. If rain was in the forecast I could tilt my head and drool all over the areas where rain was expected to fall. The stronger the storm the more I could use my depression. I would cry if accidents occurred on the freeways, or if a parade was canceled due to inclement weather. If nothing but clear skies, to get some extra ratings, I would even focus my new temper on the interns and scream insults off-camera. Who wouldn't watch that. I'd be using my powers for good, not evil. Positive thoughts!

Captain Furious

2010-02-07T20:08:00.000-08:00

It's been a week, a very depressing and frustrating week since I last posted something. I've realized a few things during that time. I found out that what I've been told is actually happening. I've discovered that the depression and rage that I have felt in previous months has been nothing compared to what it is now and I have learned that I have no way to control it, no way to keep it from taking over.

I've never had an experience quite like it. I never was prepared to accept the fact that I would be a different person from this. I believed I was in control that any changes would be insignificant. I tried to accept it. I nodded my head when the neurologist told me that my temper would flare and my depression would intensify. I told people that the depression and rage had arrived. I was wrong. I didn't bother to think that it was only the onset of what would be an onslaught of new emotions. I didn't believe that a mere hit on the head would usher in a new persona.

There were instances during the past week when I was punching walls, doors, and kicking the furniture. I did so while clenching my jaws shut, like some madman in a killing frenzy. I fear what I might turn into if I don't learn to control it.

I've always had a temper. Nothing I couldn't control. I believe it's my difficulty changing tasks that's to blame. I start a task and can't adapt. I don't know how to quit. I continue no matter how impossible it may be and the rage creeps up on me, it's sneaky and I don't see it coming. And then I snap.

I consider the rage and depression related. When my ire fades, I turn emotional and sad. I think dark thoughts, like I was a teenager all over again. There's not any other way to describe it besides dark, cold, and lonely.

Control will come one day but I am frustrated because they said this would happen and there I sat, legs crossed, stroking my beard, acting like I was prepared and writing the same. I wasn't and I am not. I am more fragile than ever, the difference from before is you can't see it, it's internal and comes out when no one is around. This isn't recovery, this is a discovery, a discovery of what this injury has turned me into.

More Lame Brain Movie Reviews

2010-01-31T17:22:00.001-08:00

Another week of working, watching movies, drooling, and trying to get my life back, is in the books. I'd thought I'd start the new week with some reviews of the past week's flicks. This week I am reviewing two new movies and one old classic, well, I think it's a classic, anyways. Those three movies include the newest from George Clooney, Up In The Air, the latest from Robert Downey Jr., Sherlock Holmes, and an oldie but goodie from the man himself, Tom Cruise, Days Of Thunder.

The other night Aimee and I got into our chill clothes- slippers, old sweat pants and comfy thrift store tees, and watched Up In The Air. The film is about a career man who spends his days traveling through the country's airports, accruing frequent flyer miles and joining every reward program there is. When he's not traveling, Clooney's character is firing people, that's what he does for a living. Three years ago I had something in common with Clooney. Not that I fired people for a living, but I spent most of my week in airports and hotels working for some engineering firm. Well, I wasn't much of an engineer but I did get wrapped up in the rewards program. I would bypass the long lines and head straight for the rental car, or to the reservation desk. I didn't do it because I liked seeing the faces on those waiting patiently in line, I did it because it made me feel important. It's strange what happens to you when you travel all of the time.

Now back to the movie. Clooney's character likes the road, better than he does his home. That said, the story is a coming of age story for middle aged, career minded people. I won't give it away, but Clooney has a change of heart. And while the story is a bit predictable, the movie, the writing, the acting is all strong. Clooney got me once again. Out of a possible four damaged neurons, I give this film a total of three damaged neurons.

Next up, is Sherlock Holmes. We invited some friends over, had a few beers and put the newest Downey Jr. film on. It starts quick, typical Guy Ritchie fashion. It starts with a fight, typical Guy Ritchie fashion. It had quick dialog, again, typical Ritchie fashion. At times, at least for the recently brain damaged, the dialog was too quick and hard to keep up with. The fight scenes were a bit overdone. I thought there were too many fight scenes. I'd rather see the gumshoe in Sherlock not the half-naked badass. In all, the plot was good, the writing had some witty banter, and Downey Jr. showed up, as did Jude Law. This was enjoyable. I give this film two and three quarter damaged neurons. The review would have been much higher if they weren't talking so fast. I mean I have brain damage, a little bit rude and inconsiderate I would say.

Lastly, an oldie but goodie. After taking Artie for a little hike, we came home and just chilled for a while. Nothing was on the TV, I didn't want to read, or do much of anything. Days Of Thunder was on and, I don't know, every time this damn movie is on, I have to watch it. I must have seen this feel good fast speed flick a hundred times, it was obvious, when Cole Trickle was in the pit, I started to scream, 'go, go go' timing it perfectly with Cruise. Part of the reason I like this movie so much is how cheesy and lame it is, how it is Top Gun for rednecks. The other reason, I love the names they used. Cole Trickle? Rowdy Burns? Russ Wheeler? How funny can they get. It sounds strange but I give this movie three and a half damaged neurons, almost perfect. Every time I watch this, the emotions race through me, my smile speeds across my face and I head for the weiner's circle. That's right, weiner's circle, not winner's circle.

So there you have it. My week in movie reviews. Stay tuned. Up this week; It's Complicated, The Box, and Crazy Heart.

How AdDroolable

2010-01-29T19:29:00.000-08:00

As if the lack of focus, the constant irritability, the dark thoughts, and the rage aren't enough symptoms for one person to handle, the other day a new symptom arose, more like slid out of my mouth and onto Aimee's shoulder as I gave her a hug. The new symptom, just to add a little insult to injury, is the presence of drool, an overabundance of saliva.

If I look down with my mouth open, the floodgates unlatch and saliva starts to leak out of my mouth. whether that is on my pillow while I am reading, or on my dog's head as I pet him and tell him that I forgive him for putting me in a coma.

I'm not sure why it's happening and what has brought it on. My hope is maybe it means I'm getting my taste back. That because it is on its way back, I am salivating more. I've scoured the brain injury websites and have come up with nothing.

So now, Aimee is stuck with hearing me slurp up my drool or else she might have a string of saliva fall on her face or onto her clothes. She wants me to go in for a checkup. She fears that it has something to do with me losing control. I don't agree. I think if it is not my taste buds waking from their four month hibernation, than it is the icing on what is one grotesque cake, or an awful punchline to an unfunny joke.

There it is; my latest symptom. So if you see me wearing a bib, than don't be alarmed. Just tell me how adroolable I look.

Political Stupor

2010-01-28T17:09:00.000-08:00

I'm unsure if I am still in a daze from the Bush years, or, if my recent near-death experience left me completely disillusioned about politics. All I know is I'm numb. I watched Obama's State of the Union speech last week, everyday at lunch I get my news from watching the Daily Show. Nothing has changed during the past year. I am starting to see that change is not something we can believe in, it never has been.

When I studied history in college, I read Democracy in America by Alexei de Tocqueville. In it, the Frenchman implied that the founders of the country didn't want change to come easy. They wanted to make it nearly impossible. Look at all of the big changes throughout our country's history. Look at Civil Rights, Women's Suffrage, slavery and one can begin to see Tocqeuville's managed to see the real constitution, long before any of those issues came to fruition. Look at what it took for any change to come.

I have to admit, I was convinced that Obama might be able to right the sinking ship. I got caught up in the election. I realize that my hatred for Bush got the best of me. But ever since waking up from the coma, I can't see much of a point behind politics. I can't make out much of a difference between the elephant and the donkey. Unfortunately, besides the difference in intellect between our former president and Obama, there's not much else that has changed and I'm realizing that it doesn't really matter. They both have their talking points, they both pander to their parties. This is the way things are and this is how it will remain. I'm getting sick of hearing pundits rant about the issues. The issues will always be there. There is never a short supply of issues. There is a shortage of solutions. I now realize that nothing can be done. We are leaning too far to right the sinking ship.

It's nice to know that my inner depression is now looking at the bigger picture, however bleak it may be.

Putting the Ass in Assignment

2010-01-27T19:58:00.000-08:00

There's a reason for my lengthy absence. I haven't had much of a desire to write about the brain lately, not because I am sick of the subject but because I've spent the past week writing a 3000 word article on my experience. When I first was asked to do it, I jumped at the opportunity. I thought about sharing the ups and downs would help me to regain my focus. I hoped it would help me find that desire to change the person that this injury is turning me into.

Turns out, all it helped me do was realize how hard it is to condense a near death experience and a major recovery into 3,000 words. I've read over the draft numerous times. I think it is bland and contrived. I now question my ability to write. I am beginning to think that another symptom has reared its ugly head. My new symptom is my inability to expound on a single thought, or idea. I don't have it. I try to jot ideas down but I can barely make it past a few words before I move on to another subject.

I'm rushing through it again. Not just this recovery but my life. I rushed through what should have been the deepest and most personal piece of writing I will ever be asked to do. I rushed through it because ideas, chores, and future articles became the priority. I now find myself more out of control than I have ever been. And change to me is just another word, an impossible feat that I fear will always be unrealized. I want my mind back. I want control of my thoughts. I can't stand not having it. I can't stand this place I am at...In the upcoming days, I will stress over the response to my recent submission. It will probably turn out better than expected. I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't. I'll let you know.

Lame Brain Movie Reviews...

2010-01-26T17:34:00.000-08:00

I'm back and ready to review three new movies that we saw during the last week. Those three movies: The Invention Of Lying, the newest comedy from Brit comedian, Ricky Gervais; also The Road, the uplifting Cormac McCarthy novel turned movie; and lastly, The Time Travelers Wife, starring Aussie Eric Banna and Rachel McAdams.

First off, we'l start with the flop. The INvention Of Lying. I was looking forward to this one. I find Ricky Gervais funny. I liked the British version of The Office better than the American one. I thought Extras was hilarious and I found Gervais' HBO standup comedy hour pretty entertaining. But the movie, despite the star studded cast didn't do anything for me. Sure it was a clever premise, one that seems to have been done, at least a version of it, countless times before. I just wish he would stick to what works. He's not a character that belongs in a romantic comedy. He's a pudgy English bloke. He should stick to the self-deprecating humor that works, not a love story with a charming little ending. I give this british comedy one damaged neuron, perfect for a lazy day, the kind that you are recovering from a hangover and don't want to move from the couch.

My next film is The Road. I read the book and I wish I wouldn't have. I thought the book was entertaining. But as soon as the trailers for the movie were released, I cringed. I ringed while watching it as well. The movie was shot well. The dialogue was good, just lik the book. The problem is once you read something like that, something where grey is the only color and ash is the only thing in the sky. It gets pretty redundant. I saw the movie when I read the book. For those that haven't cracked open the book, I recommend watching the movie, in fact, I'll give it two and a half damaged neurons. But if you've read the book, I think that is enough, you don't need to waste any more time on grey skies and ash.

Now, onto the final movie: The Time Traveler's Wife. I hadn't heard of this one before we at down to watch it. I like Eric Banna. Sure, the movie is a little lovey-dovey for me, but not over the top. I think the premise is strong, the characters compelling. I give this sappy love story, three damaged neurons. I even caught myself smiling at the screen on a few occasions. That Banna gets me everytime!

Run, run, run...

2010-01-24T19:15:00.000-08:00

Th pressure in my head has remained. This headache has lasted for seven long days. It started when the rain started to fall. My dad said the atmospheric pressure has reached an 80 year high when the storms blew through southern California. My doctor seems to think the throb inside my head is caused by the high pressure. Brain injury websites say the same thing.

The worst part about the pain is it is located jut above my right eye; the same place that I hit when I fell. It feels like an expanding knot in my head. Aimee and the rest of my family tell me I need to get rest. They prescribe naps like a doctor prescribes Vicodin. I try and tell them that naps don't help. Rest doesn't either. All rest does is give me a chance to feel the knot expand inside my head. They don't understand that the more I force myself to do, the better, the quicker time goes by, and the easier it is to forget about the nagging throb.

I don't mean to complain, but these things get old. Seven days is a long time to live with the same headache. Seven days is a long time to hear the advice from those who care but who don't know.

During the past few days I am beginning ot notice a few more symptoms. At times I act crazy. I say the wrong things. I pissed Aimee off by telling personal stories. I don't mena to do this. I don't mean to use the injury as an excuse, but I have nothing else to use. Aimee tells me that the symptoms are not supposed to get worse as my recovery continues. I remind her that doctors said recovery can take years, possibly six years. I remind her that it has only been four months. I feel bad reminding her. I fear that she will grow sick of hearing the excuse. I fear that she will stop believing that it is something I can control. It scares me to think that she will just have to start accepting the fact that she lives with someone that acts crazy and behaves poorly. I hate to think that one day she might want to find a way out. I wouldn't blame her if she does. I'd like to get as far away from myself as possible.

Forgetting Flatulence

2010-01-21T20:01:00.000-08:00

I should start this post off with an apology. Some might find this funny, others might find it repulsive. My neuro-psychologist told me to keep a sense of humor about my condition. This is my attempt at following her advice.

Yesterday, I had a craving for burritos. I am surprised I still have cravings considering I don't can't taste. I walked Artie to the local burrito stand and ordered a chile relleno burrito and a breakfast burrito, no meat, extra beans. I ate the breakfast burrito as soon as I got home. And for lunch I had the other. I should say, one thing I've noticed since waking from the coma; my stomach can't handle the same things it used to. Having Mexican blood in me, one would think that eating beans and spicy food would be harmless. I ate the food hoping that I would return to normal.

Then came the evening. Aimee was on the couch working on her computer. I was on my big brown leather chair watching some lame television. I had gas and I let it out. I had been letting them out all day and couldn't smell them, forgetting I have no sense of smell. So I let a few rip on the chair. Next thing I know, Aimee is yelling under a pillow. She looks up and asks if it was me or Artie. I said I let a little one out earlier. She looked at me and told me I was disgusting. She looked like she was about to gag. I told her that I couldn't smell anything.

"Yeah, you can't smell. I know. That's disgusting."

And then I said it. What I think might be the funniest thing I've ever said.

"Yeah, not smelling really sucks. It's starting to bum me out. The hardest part about it, I miss the smell of my own farts."

Aimee ran out of the room to grab the can of Lysol. She came back to me laughing on the chair. She was still holding her breath.

"Cmon, it doesn't even smell. I can't smell a thing," I said. She wasn't ready to laugh. I am...doctor's orders.