Destination: Tejas

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!

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!

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

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

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

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?

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.