13 March 2017
Small Reminders of Things Forgotten...
Sometimes I realize there are a lot of things I don't remember. And odd things that I do. Some memories I can put at specific times and others I just know happened around a certain timeframe. I have a lot of unanswered questions that I probably won't ever get real answers to.
I know that at one point I wasn't breathing on my own. I honestly think I passed out at the scene from lack of oxygen, because I remember trying to answer to my name with my chin on my chest and just hearing myself gurgle, then I blacked out. The next thing I remember is having my clothing cut off in the ambulance.... they found some piercings, I guess I woke up after they cut out a couple, I remember them asking me if I had any other piercings and that, for whatever reason, I could't speak but had to point. Was there a CPR mask on my face, pumping air into my mouth and lungs? Was I intubated? Was I trached by the EMT's? What medical tests and procedures were done at the first hospital? Actually, I can find out some of this info by trolling through my mountainous medical files.
At one point, after my story went international and I was getting a lot of media, therefore public, attention - not all positive, mind you- one of the EMTs contacted me through a now frequently used social media site. She reminded me of a freakout moment that I had. I don't know if what is in my head, my memory, is of the actual details of the moment, that she told me of, or if my own true memory is of the emotion and panic of the moment and she filled in the details. This woman, so help me I wish I could remember her name (not that I would tell you), I do know the one detail memory that is my own is her touch and her eyes. I know that at one point, I believe it was at the, what I like to call, layover hospital, I gained consciousness again. Before anyone could realize that I was conscious and pretty lucid, before they could gain their composure, I saw the panic in the room and freaked out.... In my head, maybe it's my fantasy, this woman saw from across the room that I saw what was going on, that I was freaking the fuck out and couldn't speak or scream -- it was like those dreams we all have where you're trying to scream and nothing comes out! Wow, it really was, it was totally, exactly, completely TOTALLY like you feel in that dream! I don't remember pain in any of this, that's a blessing, I guess. In fact, I don't remember any pain even before the paramedics arrived. But I remember panic.
Back to this woman. Somehow, for some reason, she looked away from the madness in the ER, the doctors and paramedics and nurses, she looked at me and realized that I was awake and scared as hell, she came to me and put her hands on mine, I looked in her eyes, I couldn't hear anything that was going on.... I don't know if I heard silence or overwhelming chatter-turned-static, but I didn't hear anything. I felt her hands, looked in her eyes, and went back to wherever I needed to be to not be where I was.
27 February 2017
Strabismic, or Crazy Eyes, a Poem
This piece came to me during a writing program a couple summers ago. We were talking about language and using sounds in poetry. I just popped this one out.. It probably needs some editing and continued attention, but for a first draft written in 5 minutes, it's not bad, right?
I was diagnosed with strabismus eventually after my accident, after leaving the hospital. It is technically a misalignment of the eyes. What happened with mines is that the muscles stretched and so did the nerves. This happened over a course of about three weeks, only was really noticed when I told my sister to grab the two vases on a shelf when moving hospital rooms and there was only one. In the hospital this injury was yet another issue that the hospital didn't know how to or want to deal with or diagnose, just said, well, maybe it'll fix itself! I've realized over the years that this happened to the extreme extent it did because as the nerves and muscles stretched, my vision became more and more compromised, double vision. Because I couldn't move my head, I'd move my entire torso left or right. At it's peak horror, looking forward, I could see to the left peripheral with right eye and right with left, and nothing in the middle unless I turned my torso.
This poem sounds really cool read out loud, unfortunately the meaning is lost if you can't differentiate words that sound alike but have different meanings. ENjoy
STRABISMIC
or
Crazy Eyes
my eyes don't see the sea
or me
like they used to be or see
or see the way I used to be
and
my brain flops like fucking fish fucking
on the beach
but what I see
is the seize of the seas
as my see becomes the sea
I was diagnosed with strabismus eventually after my accident, after leaving the hospital. It is technically a misalignment of the eyes. What happened with mines is that the muscles stretched and so did the nerves. This happened over a course of about three weeks, only was really noticed when I told my sister to grab the two vases on a shelf when moving hospital rooms and there was only one. In the hospital this injury was yet another issue that the hospital didn't know how to or want to deal with or diagnose, just said, well, maybe it'll fix itself! I've realized over the years that this happened to the extreme extent it did because as the nerves and muscles stretched, my vision became more and more compromised, double vision. Because I couldn't move my head, I'd move my entire torso left or right. At it's peak horror, looking forward, I could see to the left peripheral with right eye and right with left, and nothing in the middle unless I turned my torso.
This poem sounds really cool read out loud, unfortunately the meaning is lost if you can't differentiate words that sound alike but have different meanings. ENjoy
STRABISMIC
or
Crazy Eyes
my eyes don't see the sea
or me
like they used to be or see
or see the way I used to be
and
my brain flops like fucking fish fucking
on the beach
but what I see
is the seize of the seas
as my see becomes the sea
09 February 2017
Differently-abled/ Labels
So I've mentioned that my injuries were 10 years ago this month. I've spent 10 years telling myself and having to say out loud, "I'm disabled." Do you have any idea how self-deprecating it can be to use these words? And certainly, I'm sure, not for everyone. But every time someone asks me, "What do you do?" (Which I believe happens more often because I'm inked and pierced up, have blue hair, and dress ... let's call it ... creatively), I still struggle with my answer. Over the last couple years, I've responded with, "I'm a writer." But then, people want to know what I write, what I write about, am I published, what's my website, blah blah blah. Now, if I answer those questions honestly (poetry mostly but am working on getting started with memoir, essay, flash non-fiction and fiction and blogging; I write about all kinds of stuff; no because I've never submitted my writing; don't have a website or FB author page, and this is my first blog I've actually posted to), then they look at me all crazy because obviously I can't pay my bills this way, so I get flustered and start blabbering, if I say I was in a car accident and suffered life-changing injuries and cant work, believe it or not most people say, "Oh, so you're on disability?" First of all, can't everyone just mind their own fucking business? Why do you care what I do for a living? Why does it enhance your quality of life to know how I get money to pay my bills? Why is this the first question people ask? I thought Fight Club pushed us past this and helped each of us realize, "You are not our khakis... You are not your fucking job," but apparently it did not. I digress.
I literally cringe every time someone calls me disabled, or I have to say it myself (when, for example, I have to get a wheelchair at the airport or ask for help lifting my bag into the overhead bin, why I get to bring my emotional support dog into the restaurant and you don't get to ask me why I need her, or what I "do."). In the "disability community," there are many different ways to deal with this. "I'm not handicapped I'm handicapable." Think about that... really????? "I'm not disabled, I'm 'differently'abled." Ooooookaaaaaay.... What's with the need for labels??? (I've been asking myself that since middle school...). And, obviously, the word "disabled" was developed to be a politically correct word, less detestable and less offensive term to replace the profoundly offensive, "retarded." Now, years later, the word "disabled" has become, for some of us, distasteful, embarrassing, and for some even opprobrious and contemptible, certainly unflattering. So those of us afflicted with some medical issue(s) that impede some of our abilities are grasping at straws to find a word or mashup of words that doesn't make us feel the same way the word "retarded" makes us feel, because for many of us, "disabled" is the new "retarded."
Why does it even matter? Why do I have to have a word that quickly and simply tells people that I'm "special," have medical issues that often heavily impact my ability to make it from point A to point B without assistance or resting (legally, it's 200 feet to get special parking privileges)? Partially because I have to have an answer to nosy busy bodies who have nothing better to do or worry about, to where I park with the parking placard my doctor suggested I get-- Yes, people actually confront me about parking in those special parking spots close to the door, because I "don't look disabled," and "have a nice car." First, how INSANELY IGNORANT to think I can't afford nice things because my body is fucked up... FD Roosevelt used a wheelchair, and he lived in the fucking White House and ran the country, and Stephen Hawking is in a wheelchair and talks thru a computer (and is rumoured to have a net worth of a cool $20 mil). I'm guessing neither ever stood in line for food stamps or begged for money on the interstate offramp. Second, I'm sorry you were born without X-ray vision, but I have severe sciatica, a neck that's fused to my skull, a twisted spinal cord, and breathe through a hole in my neck. But the next time you think about confronting someone who looks "normal" but uses that rockstar parking, or even worse, ask the manager of the store to call the police because someone is abusing a parking space (event though there's a sign in the windshield of a little stick figure in a wheelchair, try this first: MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!!!!!! Oh, don't think this doesn't happen, and hasn't happened to me.... and twice when I was with other people- the first time with my mom, and when I finally got the woman setting a great example for her 10 year old son by her side, she tried to come off as a Good Samaritan by saying: "I'm just looking out for people like you." My response (which I'm totally proud of being able to think of on the spot; I won't lie, between my traumatic brain injuries and shock treatments, sometimes I'm a little slow to think of things like quick comebacks or just blank out on even the most common words): "People like me certainly don't need people like you, for ANYTHING. Trust me." I've been questioned probably 20 times about my right to park where I park. My current, pre-programmed response is: Listen, if you have a HIPPA form and 20 minutes, I'll tell you why I get to park here and you don't. . . No? Left those at home and in a hurry? Google internal decapitation and you'll see my picture, by that time it'll be too late for you to apologize for being an insensitive, judgmental, snoopy C-U-Next-Tuesday prick face.
This post wasn't even supposed to be about this, it was going to be about how starting an exercise program dramatically increased my physical capabilities, emotional health, psychological well-being, ambition/ motivation to live a life that didn't consist of going from my bed to my couch (on the days I made it to the couch), and self-awareness about my genuine potentiality... All of which had been strangled by thinking I am, saying I am, and being labeled as: disabled. But for me, those other terms I mentioned before aren't much better, and "norms" tend to look dumbfounded when they hear them. They sound good in a motivational speech, or a panel on disabilities or whatever, when the crowd is pumped and everyone's cheering excitedly about the new positive sounding ways to refer to themselves... but when it comes down to it, outside that situation these terms start to sound a little hokey and i'm not afraid to say it, silly. To me. Everything I've written here is obviously my opinion, and I'm sure if I ever get any followers I'll also have haters and people thinking i'm being insensitive or judgmental, but I'm not saying the people who like saying they are handicapable are hokey or silly, just that I, myself, do not like to use these terms to describe or label myself. So I've got to find a simple and polite way to answer questions like these:
Why don't you shovel your snow?
Why are you parked there?
Why do you have a support animal? (Not legally acceptable for an employee of an establishment to ask this, btw)
Why don't you work?
Why don't you clean your own house?
Why is your 60 year old mom carrying your bags at the mall?
Why do you get to sit in the handicapped seats at _________? (Concert, lecture, panel, ballet, theatre, etc...... And this is because my vision is effected, and I can't see from far away without major sensory overload which leads to debilitating and attention-getting anxiety)
Why can't you walk through the airport to your gate/why do you get to skip the TSA line?
Why can't you make plans in advance?
Why can't you work?
Why can't you get out of bed?
Why do you keep kicking me in the face while I'm giving you a pedicure?
Or the comments:
You look fine/normal/capable to me!
Why are you breathing like that/a meth head? Why are you gasping for air?
You know you're parked in a handicapped spot.
I like your choker/necklace. (It's a trach, not an optional piece of jewelry, but thanks and it's cool you didn't realize what it was).
I'm way off my intended topic, here, and I'm going to leave in every tangent I've gone off on. First, it's like my 3rd post so I think I'll be forgiven, and second, this is my reality. Third, this whole thing, every last word, is in my voice. That may not be apparent as of yet, in this early stage of my blog, but if you continue to read it, you'll soon agree. So, the How Exercise Changed My Life blog will be posted at another time!
*Opinions, feelings and concepts discussed are my own and i mean no offense to anyone who disagrees, "differently abled" or not. I use humour, frequently abrasive and vulgar, to deal with my shit and there's likely a bit of sarcasm above. By NO MEANS am I speaking/venting/complaining for anyone else, so don't take out any anger induced by my asshole POV on every person you see with that blue and white, stick figure in a wheelchair sign in their car window, it's not their fault I got angry and posted this blog!!!!!
I literally cringe every time someone calls me disabled, or I have to say it myself (when, for example, I have to get a wheelchair at the airport or ask for help lifting my bag into the overhead bin, why I get to bring my emotional support dog into the restaurant and you don't get to ask me why I need her, or what I "do."). In the "disability community," there are many different ways to deal with this. "I'm not handicapped I'm handicapable." Think about that... really????? "I'm not disabled, I'm 'differently'abled." Ooooookaaaaaay.... What's with the need for labels??? (I've been asking myself that since middle school...). And, obviously, the word "disabled" was developed to be a politically correct word, less detestable and less offensive term to replace the profoundly offensive, "retarded." Now, years later, the word "disabled" has become, for some of us, distasteful, embarrassing, and for some even opprobrious and contemptible, certainly unflattering. So those of us afflicted with some medical issue(s) that impede some of our abilities are grasping at straws to find a word or mashup of words that doesn't make us feel the same way the word "retarded" makes us feel, because for many of us, "disabled" is the new "retarded."
Why does it even matter? Why do I have to have a word that quickly and simply tells people that I'm "special," have medical issues that often heavily impact my ability to make it from point A to point B without assistance or resting (legally, it's 200 feet to get special parking privileges)? Partially because I have to have an answer to nosy busy bodies who have nothing better to do or worry about, to where I park with the parking placard my doctor suggested I get-- Yes, people actually confront me about parking in those special parking spots close to the door, because I "don't look disabled," and "have a nice car." First, how INSANELY IGNORANT to think I can't afford nice things because my body is fucked up... FD Roosevelt used a wheelchair, and he lived in the fucking White House and ran the country, and Stephen Hawking is in a wheelchair and talks thru a computer (and is rumoured to have a net worth of a cool $20 mil). I'm guessing neither ever stood in line for food stamps or begged for money on the interstate offramp. Second, I'm sorry you were born without X-ray vision, but I have severe sciatica, a neck that's fused to my skull, a twisted spinal cord, and breathe through a hole in my neck. But the next time you think about confronting someone who looks "normal" but uses that rockstar parking, or even worse, ask the manager of the store to call the police because someone is abusing a parking space (event though there's a sign in the windshield of a little stick figure in a wheelchair, try this first: MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!!!!!! Oh, don't think this doesn't happen, and hasn't happened to me.... and twice when I was with other people- the first time with my mom, and when I finally got the woman setting a great example for her 10 year old son by her side, she tried to come off as a Good Samaritan by saying: "I'm just looking out for people like you." My response (which I'm totally proud of being able to think of on the spot; I won't lie, between my traumatic brain injuries and shock treatments, sometimes I'm a little slow to think of things like quick comebacks or just blank out on even the most common words): "People like me certainly don't need people like you, for ANYTHING. Trust me." I've been questioned probably 20 times about my right to park where I park. My current, pre-programmed response is: Listen, if you have a HIPPA form and 20 minutes, I'll tell you why I get to park here and you don't. . . No? Left those at home and in a hurry? Google internal decapitation and you'll see my picture, by that time it'll be too late for you to apologize for being an insensitive, judgmental, snoopy C-U-Next-Tuesday prick face.
This post wasn't even supposed to be about this, it was going to be about how starting an exercise program dramatically increased my physical capabilities, emotional health, psychological well-being, ambition/ motivation to live a life that didn't consist of going from my bed to my couch (on the days I made it to the couch), and self-awareness about my genuine potentiality... All of which had been strangled by thinking I am, saying I am, and being labeled as: disabled. But for me, those other terms I mentioned before aren't much better, and "norms" tend to look dumbfounded when they hear them. They sound good in a motivational speech, or a panel on disabilities or whatever, when the crowd is pumped and everyone's cheering excitedly about the new positive sounding ways to refer to themselves... but when it comes down to it, outside that situation these terms start to sound a little hokey and i'm not afraid to say it, silly. To me. Everything I've written here is obviously my opinion, and I'm sure if I ever get any followers I'll also have haters and people thinking i'm being insensitive or judgmental, but I'm not saying the people who like saying they are handicapable are hokey or silly, just that I, myself, do not like to use these terms to describe or label myself. So I've got to find a simple and polite way to answer questions like these:
Why don't you shovel your snow?
Why are you parked there?
Why do you have a support animal? (Not legally acceptable for an employee of an establishment to ask this, btw)
Why don't you work?
Why don't you clean your own house?
Why is your 60 year old mom carrying your bags at the mall?
Why do you get to sit in the handicapped seats at _________? (Concert, lecture, panel, ballet, theatre, etc...... And this is because my vision is effected, and I can't see from far away without major sensory overload which leads to debilitating and attention-getting anxiety)
Why can't you walk through the airport to your gate/why do you get to skip the TSA line?
Why can't you make plans in advance?
Why can't you work?
Why can't you get out of bed?
Why do you keep kicking me in the face while I'm giving you a pedicure?
Or the comments:
You look fine/normal/capable to me!
Why are you breathing like that/a meth head? Why are you gasping for air?
You know you're parked in a handicapped spot.
I like your choker/necklace. (It's a trach, not an optional piece of jewelry, but thanks and it's cool you didn't realize what it was).
I'm way off my intended topic, here, and I'm going to leave in every tangent I've gone off on. First, it's like my 3rd post so I think I'll be forgiven, and second, this is my reality. Third, this whole thing, every last word, is in my voice. That may not be apparent as of yet, in this early stage of my blog, but if you continue to read it, you'll soon agree. So, the How Exercise Changed My Life blog will be posted at another time!
*Opinions, feelings and concepts discussed are my own and i mean no offense to anyone who disagrees, "differently abled" or not. I use humour, frequently abrasive and vulgar, to deal with my shit and there's likely a bit of sarcasm above. By NO MEANS am I speaking/venting/complaining for anyone else, so don't take out any anger induced by my asshole POV on every person you see with that blue and white, stick figure in a wheelchair sign in their car window, it's not their fault I got angry and posted this blog!!!!!
WHY AM I HERE-- A Loaded Question
Most people have crazy questions after a major trauma or near death experience. I think the most common thought of wonder is, “Why the hell did I survive?” Then there’s this period of time- and that period of time may never end- where the survivor is baffled by the survival of an incident that kills most people who experience it. I’m no different. I don’t even know if I can say that that “period of time” has ended for me, or that I’ve figured anything out over the 10 years since my survival of such a terrible accident my family was repeatedly told to make their peace and say goodbyes.
It’s so cliche, but afterward, as is normal, everyone kept saying, “You’re here for a reason!” There’s a lot of pressure in that statement, especially considering I couldn’t walk, talk, swallow, think straight, or remember what had happened 5 minutes ago. Hearing that phrase over and over, I kept thinking, “I’m supposed to contribute something amazing to the world I apparently fought really fucking hard to stay in. Eventually, as the tubes came out of my throat and I regained the ability to speak, I found myself constantly repeating this ridiculous sentiment: “I’m here for a reason!” Then people started asking me what that reason was. Shit! How the hell do I know? I was miserable– horrific pain, a tube hanging out of my stomach because I couldn’t swallow, eyes crossed so bad I saw to the left with my right eye and the right with my left eye and nothing straight ahead, I was using a wheelchair or walker, and was so doped up I barely knew my name. Finally, someone said to me, “You’re not here to do for others, you’re here to finally live your life. What do you want to do?” Now, not just, “shit!” But, “Holy SHIT!” What does that mean? Ten years later I’m still asking myself that question. It’s a lot of pressure.
blah blah blah. Everything happens for a reason. Blah blah blah
Three days before my accident I had a loaded gun in my mouth. All of a sudden, I’m inspiring and strong and determined, in the eyes of others. And that’s a lot of pressure, too. Overwhelming to someone who has no idea what the future will look like: Will I ever be able to eat a steak again? Will I look this hideous forever? Will I ever be able to smile a genuine smile? Will I ever be able to breathe without excruciating pain? Will I ever be able to think clearly with all these meds? I think it was seeing my entire extended family rallied around me that made me pretend I wanted to live. I found myself uncharacteristicly busting my ass in my 3x-a-day physical therapies — to the point my grandma asked the therapists if they were sure I didn’t have more brain damage than they said because this was not her granddaughter pushing her limits. People would say that my desire to live saved my life. BULLSHIT!!! It took me a long time to admit I had a gun in my mouth just days before my skull separated from my spine and I was moved and intubated so many times it should have killed me each time. There was no reason for me to fight, not in my little mind at the time. I was miserable. I hated myself. I was desolate, empty, alone, scared, lost, an addict…. DONE. Stick a fork in me. I had suffered from bipolar and suicide ideation most of my life, since the age of 12, if not earlier. I made terrible decisions with no forethought. I didn’t understand this life or my position in it. I hurt everyone who loved me, repeatedly. So, WHY THE FUCK WAS I HERE????????
Survivor’s guilt is a very real feeling. Why should I live when another person with lesser injuries dies, someone who has a family dependent on them financially and emotionally, with children they’ll never get to raise or a partner who can’t function without them. I had family that loved me, but no one depended on me (they knew better, I’d just disappoint).
I’ve gotten over the whole, “I’m supposed to save the world because the universe spared me,” thoughts. Others still expect me to do something great, something with enormous impact … And I will. I’ll do something that fills my soul, something that impacts my happiness, something that enriches my life and my little world. If I learned anything, learned the reason for my existence, it’s that I deserve to be happy, I deserve to feel good, I deserve to do something great that rocks my world, saves my life. And if that means someone else can draw strength from my determination, is inspired by my refusal to just fucking die already, then so be it. But if it means that I sacrifice myself then I am here for nothing.
It’s so cliche, but afterward, as is normal, everyone kept saying, “You’re here for a reason!” There’s a lot of pressure in that statement, especially considering I couldn’t walk, talk, swallow, think straight, or remember what had happened 5 minutes ago. Hearing that phrase over and over, I kept thinking, “I’m supposed to contribute something amazing to the world I apparently fought really fucking hard to stay in. Eventually, as the tubes came out of my throat and I regained the ability to speak, I found myself constantly repeating this ridiculous sentiment: “I’m here for a reason!” Then people started asking me what that reason was. Shit! How the hell do I know? I was miserable– horrific pain, a tube hanging out of my stomach because I couldn’t swallow, eyes crossed so bad I saw to the left with my right eye and the right with my left eye and nothing straight ahead, I was using a wheelchair or walker, and was so doped up I barely knew my name. Finally, someone said to me, “You’re not here to do for others, you’re here to finally live your life. What do you want to do?” Now, not just, “shit!” But, “Holy SHIT!” What does that mean? Ten years later I’m still asking myself that question. It’s a lot of pressure.
blah blah blah. Everything happens for a reason. Blah blah blah
Three days before my accident I had a loaded gun in my mouth. All of a sudden, I’m inspiring and strong and determined, in the eyes of others. And that’s a lot of pressure, too. Overwhelming to someone who has no idea what the future will look like: Will I ever be able to eat a steak again? Will I look this hideous forever? Will I ever be able to smile a genuine smile? Will I ever be able to breathe without excruciating pain? Will I ever be able to think clearly with all these meds? I think it was seeing my entire extended family rallied around me that made me pretend I wanted to live. I found myself uncharacteristicly busting my ass in my 3x-a-day physical therapies — to the point my grandma asked the therapists if they were sure I didn’t have more brain damage than they said because this was not her granddaughter pushing her limits. People would say that my desire to live saved my life. BULLSHIT!!! It took me a long time to admit I had a gun in my mouth just days before my skull separated from my spine and I was moved and intubated so many times it should have killed me each time. There was no reason for me to fight, not in my little mind at the time. I was miserable. I hated myself. I was desolate, empty, alone, scared, lost, an addict…. DONE. Stick a fork in me. I had suffered from bipolar and suicide ideation most of my life, since the age of 12, if not earlier. I made terrible decisions with no forethought. I didn’t understand this life or my position in it. I hurt everyone who loved me, repeatedly. So, WHY THE FUCK WAS I HERE????????
Survivor’s guilt is a very real feeling. Why should I live when another person with lesser injuries dies, someone who has a family dependent on them financially and emotionally, with children they’ll never get to raise or a partner who can’t function without them. I had family that loved me, but no one depended on me (they knew better, I’d just disappoint).
I’ve gotten over the whole, “I’m supposed to save the world because the universe spared me,” thoughts. Others still expect me to do something great, something with enormous impact … And I will. I’ll do something that fills my soul, something that impacts my happiness, something that enriches my life and my little world. If I learned anything, learned the reason for my existence, it’s that I deserve to be happy, I deserve to feel good, I deserve to do something great that rocks my world, saves my life. And if that means someone else can draw strength from my determination, is inspired by my refusal to just fucking die already, then so be it. But if it means that I sacrifice myself then I am here for nothing.
Internal Decapitation... a post from 5 Jan 2013
Saturday, January 5, 2013
It's about time....
So. Finally. A real first post. It's about time, but until now, I wasn't sure exactly what I wanted to share. Not because I couldn't think of anything to write, but because I have too much to write about. And I have so much I want to share with the world, but some of it I don't want the world to know who said it... And not just my words, but what's said to me by who and what it means. I really am not here to piss anyone off by telling the world what they said to me and how inconsiderate or fucked up it was.
So, maybe I should have used a pen name, but then I'd have to try to cover my identity by not being honest by default - lack of full disclosure. And you deserve that, if you are going to spend the time reading my rants and occasional epiphanies. And I'd have to cover up my real injury, and lets face it, isn't "internal decapitation" one of the things that got you here?
Maybe this post should tell you about the accident. Then again, you can also google my name or internal decapitation and find out a lot on your own.... But those aren't my words. None of them. There may be a quote here
and there, but no one really told the story from my eyes. And I don't think anyone's heard it this way yet. And maybe, I'll die before I finish telling you my story the way I want it told. But that won't be my problem, and I think writing this blog will solve many other problems that are very much mine, and really mine alone. Yes, I have family, but the way I have been since that day is only my problem, and only I can fix it. I hope through writing in this manner, allowing comments and public viewing, writing with honesty and honor, telling my truth,explaining my experience in this way, I can handle the rest of what's waiting for me.
So, maybe I should have used a pen name, but then I'd have to try to cover my identity by not being honest by default - lack of full disclosure. And you deserve that, if you are going to spend the time reading my rants and occasional epiphanies. And I'd have to cover up my real injury, and lets face it, isn't "internal decapitation" one of the things that got you here?
Maybe this post should tell you about the accident. Then again, you can also google my name or internal decapitation and find out a lot on your own.... But those aren't my words. None of them. There may be a quote here
and there, but no one really told the story from my eyes. And I don't think anyone's heard it this way yet. And maybe, I'll die before I finish telling you my story the way I want it told. But that won't be my problem, and I think writing this blog will solve many other problems that are very much mine, and really mine alone. Yes, I have family, but the way I have been since that day is only my problem, and only I can fix it. I hope through writing in this manner, allowing comments and public viewing, writing with honesty and honor, telling my truth,explaining my experience in this way, I can handle the rest of what's waiting for me.
Small Reminders of Things Forgotten...
Small reminders of things forgotten...
Sometimes I realize there are a lot of things I don't remember. And odd things that I do. Some memories I can put at specific times and others I just know happened around a certain timeframe. I have a lot of unanswered questions that I probably won't ever get real answers to.
I know that at one point I wasn't breathing on my own. I honestly think I passed out at the scene from lack of oxygen, because I remember trying to answer to my name with my chin on my chest and just hearing myself gurgle, then I blacked out. The next thing I remember is having my clothing cut off in the ambulance.... they found some piercings, I guess I woke up after they cut out a couple, I remember them asking me if I had any other piercings and that, for whatever reason, I could't speak but had to point. Was there a CPR mask on my face, pumping air into my mouth and lungs? Was I intubated? Was I trached by the EMT's? What medical tests and procedures were done at the first hospital? Actually, I can find out some of this info by trolling through my mountainous medical files.
At one point, after my story went international and I was getting a lot of media, therefore public, attention - not all positive, mind you- one of the EMTs contacted me through a now frequently unused social media site. She reminded me of a freakout moment that I had. I don't know if what is in my head, my memory, is of the actual details of the moment, that she told me of, or if my own true memory is of the emotion and panic of the moment and she filled in the details. This woman, so help me I wish I could remember her name (not that I would tell you), I do know the one detail memory that is my own is her touch and her eyes. I know that at one point, I believe it was at the, what I like to call, layover hospital, I gained consciousness again. Before anyone could realize that I was conscious and pretty lucid, before they could gain their composure, I saw the panic in the room and freaked out.... In my head, maybe it's my fantasy, this woman saw from across the room that I saw what was going on, that I was freaking the fuck out and couldn't speak or scream -- it was like those dreams we all have where you're trying to scream and nothing comes out! Wow, it really was, it was totally, exactly, completely TOTALLY like you feel in that dream! I don't remember pain in any of this, that's a blessing, I guess. In fact, I don't remember any pain even before the paramedics arrived. But I remember panic.
Back to this woman. Somehow, for some reason, she looked away from the madness in the ER, the doctors and paramedics and nurses, she looked at me and realized that I was awake and scared as hell, she came to me and put her hands on mine, I looked in her eyes, I couldn't hear anything that was going on.... I don't know if I heard silence or overwhelming chatter-turned-static, but I didn't hear anything. I felt her hands, looked in her eyes, and went back to wherever I needed to be to not be where I was.
I know that at one point I wasn't breathing on my own. I honestly think I passed out at the scene from lack of oxygen, because I remember trying to answer to my name with my chin on my chest and just hearing myself gurgle, then I blacked out. The next thing I remember is having my clothing cut off in the ambulance.... they found some piercings, I guess I woke up after they cut out a couple, I remember them asking me if I had any other piercings and that, for whatever reason, I could't speak but had to point. Was there a CPR mask on my face, pumping air into my mouth and lungs? Was I intubated? Was I trached by the EMT's? What medical tests and procedures were done at the first hospital? Actually, I can find out some of this info by trolling through my mountainous medical files.
At one point, after my story went international and I was getting a lot of media, therefore public, attention - not all positive, mind you- one of the EMTs contacted me through a now frequently unused social media site. She reminded me of a freakout moment that I had. I don't know if what is in my head, my memory, is of the actual details of the moment, that she told me of, or if my own true memory is of the emotion and panic of the moment and she filled in the details. This woman, so help me I wish I could remember her name (not that I would tell you), I do know the one detail memory that is my own is her touch and her eyes. I know that at one point, I believe it was at the, what I like to call, layover hospital, I gained consciousness again. Before anyone could realize that I was conscious and pretty lucid, before they could gain their composure, I saw the panic in the room and freaked out.... In my head, maybe it's my fantasy, this woman saw from across the room that I saw what was going on, that I was freaking the fuck out and couldn't speak or scream -- it was like those dreams we all have where you're trying to scream and nothing comes out! Wow, it really was, it was totally, exactly, completely TOTALLY like you feel in that dream! I don't remember pain in any of this, that's a blessing, I guess. In fact, I don't remember any pain even before the paramedics arrived. But I remember panic.
Back to this woman. Somehow, for some reason, she looked away from the madness in the ER, the doctors and paramedics and nurses, she looked at me and realized that I was awake and scared as hell, she came to me and put her hands on mine, I looked in her eyes, I couldn't hear anything that was going on.... I don't know if I heard silence or overwhelming chatter-turned-static, but I didn't hear anything. I felt her hands, looked in her eyes, and went back to wherever I needed to be to not be where I was.
The stupid shit people say when they don't know what else to say....
When you've gone through hell, you're torn up, broken, bruised, entombed in weird medical devices, and barely holding it together, that's when you can count on the ones who love you the most to say the shit that hurts the most, sounds ridiculous, and comes off as horribly selfish or thoughtless. It can cause tears, heartache, and long-term or even permanent "breakups." In fact, when it comes to most of my "friends" before my accident, the last I saw of them was their backs as they walked away, most of them after their first time seeing me torn up, broken and entombed. And I'm going on 10 years.
Most people are at a loss for words when their loved ones are suffering, especially if there is physical evidence. When you see someone randomly in public who is obviously fucked up-- wheel chair, oxygen tank, sunglasses and stick, or in a weird medical device-- it's normal to think all kinds of crazy shit: "Oh my god, that poor person," "I'm glad that's not me," "What the hell happened to you?"... When it's someone you know, or god forbid love, those phrases take on a whole new depth of HOLY SHIT!!!!! We naturally think that we are supposed to say or do something to make them feel better, or normal, or like nothing has really changed. I even got to the point where hearing, "You're so lucky!" pissed me off beyond belief. One day, my driver for the day asked me my story, I told him and was profoundly relieved when his response was, "I'm sorry that happened to you. I bet people tell you you're lucky all the time. But you weren't. You weren't lucky!" Relief!!!! We continued to speak about how unlucky I was, that it may have been better if I didn't survive. Now, this was in the beginning, when I was totally fucked up and no one knew what the future held, if there was a future that could resemble normalcy, a future where the pain was bearable and emotions were manageable.
It's obvious to the afflicted that we make others uncomfortable... we're damaged, not stupid. We're injured, not destroyed. We're scared, not inspirational. And to be honest, we probably don't want to be talking about it -- it's the same questions, over and over, day after day. And I realize how crazy it sounds for me to say we probably don't want to talk about it, as I'm writing for a blog about my injuries, but this is different, this isn't someone looking me in the eye asking what they consider appropriate questions. This is me telling you what I want you to hear, when I want you to hear it, and without having to see the pity in your eyes and "Holy shit!" on your face. Unlike what happened that day I ended up in a ditch, this is on my terms.
When you've gone through hell, you're torn up, broken, bruised, entombed in weird medical devices, and barely holding it together, that's when you can count on the ones who love you the most to say the shit that hurts the most, sounds ridiculous, and comes off as horribly selfish or thoughtless. It can cause tears, heartache, and long-term or even permanent "breakups." In fact, when it comes to most of my "friends" before my accident, the last I saw of them was their backs as they walked away, most of them after their first time seeing me torn up, broken and entombed. And I'm going on 10 years.
Most people are at a loss for words when their loved ones are suffering, especially if there is physical evidence. When you see someone randomly in public who is obviously fucked up-- wheel chair, oxygen tank, sunglasses and stick, or in a weird medical device-- it's normal to think all kinds of crazy shit: "Oh my god, that poor person," "I'm glad that's not me," "What the hell happened to you?"... When it's someone you know, or god forbid love, those phrases take on a whole new depth of HOLY SHIT!!!!! We naturally think that we are supposed to say or do something to make them feel better, or normal, or like nothing has really changed. I even got to the point where hearing, "You're so lucky!" pissed me off beyond belief. One day, my driver for the day asked me my story, I told him and was profoundly relieved when his response was, "I'm sorry that happened to you. I bet people tell you you're lucky all the time. But you weren't. You weren't lucky!" Relief!!!! We continued to speak about how unlucky I was, that it may have been better if I didn't survive. Now, this was in the beginning, when I was totally fucked up and no one knew what the future held, if there was a future that could resemble normalcy, a future where the pain was bearable and emotions were manageable.
It's obvious to the afflicted that we make others uncomfortable... we're damaged, not stupid. We're injured, not destroyed. We're scared, not inspirational. And to be honest, we probably don't want to be talking about it -- it's the same questions, over and over, day after day. And I realize how crazy it sounds for me to say we probably don't want to talk about it, as I'm writing for a blog about my injuries, but this is different, this isn't someone looking me in the eye asking what they consider appropriate questions. This is me telling you what I want you to hear, when I want you to hear it, and without having to see the pity in your eyes and "Holy shit!" on your face. Unlike what happened that day I ended up in a ditch, this is on my terms.
Am I Parazlyzed? Waking Up on LIfe Support
Am I Paralyzed?
Waking Up on Life Support
In a complete state of panic I am waving my hand around, which someone finally realized I was asking for a pen and paper. I just woke up and there are tubes coming from and going into everywhere. I can't speak. I can't move my arms or my legs.
What the fuck is going on? Why can't I move? Get all these tubes out of me! Why can't I talk? Where the hell am I? And it's so fucking loud, can't someone shut up all that noise? Beeps, alarms, buzzing like there's a 5 alarm fire and the truck is driving in my brain.
My mom brings me a pen and a piece of paper. I think I am writing, "Am I paralyzed? What's wrong with me?" There are tears in her eyes as she shows me the paper I just wrote on, and it's covered with dots in no certain or discernible pattern. They certainly don't portray the question I desperately need answered immediately. I am slowly realizing all the noises are the machines I'm hooked up to, the sources of all the tubes and wires. There's something down my throat, things attached to my fingers and head, I think more than one IV. But none of this explains why I can't move. I think I've finally gotten across my questions using my eyes, frantically looking at my mom and then to my legs, and finally she says, "You aren't paralyzed, you're in the hospital. It's not good, honey, I'm so sorry. We don't really know everything right now, except that you are not paralyzed and the rest of what we know is hard to explain." I'm trying to move my arms, and she explains, "You keep waking up and pulling out your intubation tube and your IV so they had to strap your arms and legs down -- you even kicked over a mach.... Oh, she's back asleep."
Waking Up on Life Support
In a complete state of panic I am waving my hand around, which someone finally realized I was asking for a pen and paper. I just woke up and there are tubes coming from and going into everywhere. I can't speak. I can't move my arms or my legs.
What the fuck is going on? Why can't I move? Get all these tubes out of me! Why can't I talk? Where the hell am I? And it's so fucking loud, can't someone shut up all that noise? Beeps, alarms, buzzing like there's a 5 alarm fire and the truck is driving in my brain.
My mom brings me a pen and a piece of paper. I think I am writing, "Am I paralyzed? What's wrong with me?" There are tears in her eyes as she shows me the paper I just wrote on, and it's covered with dots in no certain or discernible pattern. They certainly don't portray the question I desperately need answered immediately. I am slowly realizing all the noises are the machines I'm hooked up to, the sources of all the tubes and wires. There's something down my throat, things attached to my fingers and head, I think more than one IV. But none of this explains why I can't move. I think I've finally gotten across my questions using my eyes, frantically looking at my mom and then to my legs, and finally she says, "You aren't paralyzed, you're in the hospital. It's not good, honey, I'm so sorry. We don't really know everything right now, except that you are not paralyzed and the rest of what we know is hard to explain." I'm trying to move my arms, and she explains, "You keep waking up and pulling out your intubation tube and your IV so they had to strap your arms and legs down -- you even kicked over a mach.... Oh, she's back asleep."
Convincing myself to write
(Another post from Internally Decapitated, written a few years ago... obviously I didn't keep up this commitment to myself. It's important to me to share this again, now. It's funny how I sound, in this post, so self-assured, aware, committed... only to fail and bail on my dreams and commitments to myself. The stupid thing is that I know that if I kept this up, this writing thing that I claim so passionately to be devoted to, I'd be so much more emotionally and mentally healthy and aware, instead of realizing 6 days in I'm in a profound depression that seems like will never end.)
I've been gone awhile, I know. Not the ideal way to find, get, keep and audience. My head has been swimming for... well, I guess really I don't know when it wasn't, but this time's different. This time, there is intent, confidence, strength. And self-empowerment, I think I'm finding that, too, learning how to do it in healthy and honest ways. Self-empowerment will never come from self-destruction, even when it feels like it -- that's something else, I think. In the simplest terms, a lie.
So here's been my struggle with this blog. To start with, I thought it would give me something I could always be able to write about. I wanted to do this as a writer, who happened to have survived something horrific, not to be categorized as a part of the disabled writer's movement. And that has kept me from writing in my blog. I really wanted to use this as a platform for being a writer, everything I read about getting an audience stressed the topic.... it has to have some sort of demographic. I figured being internally decapitated would get a bit of attention. I've been regularly attending therapy lately and am using EMDR as well as talk therapy, and it's amazing. My emotional scar tissue is shedding away, I'm learning to stop suppressing myself to accommodate others, including myself. Especially myself. My self. And I'm learning what I've been doing in my head and how I've been interpreting feelings (about myself and others) and relationships and what's important.... I'm learning it's time to speak my truths, what my truth really is and what I should be doing with them, how to understand them, use them to my advantage, even the sad ones.
I spent a week at Naropa in Boulder, a school I've been dreaming of for 15 years. I finally made it, even for just a week. That week changed my life, changed me, changed my writing and my thoughts and processes and goals and ambitions and re birthed that passion for writing poetry that's been gone for so many years. But I don't know if I'm ready to share those intensities with you yet, if I'm ready to be that vulnerable for you yet. Maybe some day...
So, here I sit in this whirlwind of words and dreams and a little bit of vomit and spilled ashtrays and wonder what it is I should write about, what I should share with you and how.
I think this is all I need to share right now. I hope that I can share at least once a week. I won't guarantee that it'll always be about something medical, or that it'll be grammatically accurate or even interesting. I definitely won't promise that I'll go back and proofread or edit before I post because I probably won't. As part of my using this platform as a writer, this, for me, needs to be more of a journal --- edited in my head before I can type it in a bright white box in a blogging app.
None the matter, I am starting anew as of this post, and we will see together (me and like the 2 of you that read here) where this blog takes me....
as always, please feel free to post comments and questions, only if they are honest and respectful. I will only edit disrespectful comments
I've been gone awhile, I know. Not the ideal way to find, get, keep and audience. My head has been swimming for... well, I guess really I don't know when it wasn't, but this time's different. This time, there is intent, confidence, strength. And self-empowerment, I think I'm finding that, too, learning how to do it in healthy and honest ways. Self-empowerment will never come from self-destruction, even when it feels like it -- that's something else, I think. In the simplest terms, a lie.
So here's been my struggle with this blog. To start with, I thought it would give me something I could always be able to write about. I wanted to do this as a writer, who happened to have survived something horrific, not to be categorized as a part of the disabled writer's movement. And that has kept me from writing in my blog. I really wanted to use this as a platform for being a writer, everything I read about getting an audience stressed the topic.... it has to have some sort of demographic. I figured being internally decapitated would get a bit of attention. I've been regularly attending therapy lately and am using EMDR as well as talk therapy, and it's amazing. My emotional scar tissue is shedding away, I'm learning to stop suppressing myself to accommodate others, including myself. Especially myself. My self. And I'm learning what I've been doing in my head and how I've been interpreting feelings (about myself and others) and relationships and what's important.... I'm learning it's time to speak my truths, what my truth really is and what I should be doing with them, how to understand them, use them to my advantage, even the sad ones.
I spent a week at Naropa in Boulder, a school I've been dreaming of for 15 years. I finally made it, even for just a week. That week changed my life, changed me, changed my writing and my thoughts and processes and goals and ambitions and re birthed that passion for writing poetry that's been gone for so many years. But I don't know if I'm ready to share those intensities with you yet, if I'm ready to be that vulnerable for you yet. Maybe some day...
So, here I sit in this whirlwind of words and dreams and a little bit of vomit and spilled ashtrays and wonder what it is I should write about, what I should share with you and how.
I think this is all I need to share right now. I hope that I can share at least once a week. I won't guarantee that it'll always be about something medical, or that it'll be grammatically accurate or even interesting. I definitely won't promise that I'll go back and proofread or edit before I post because I probably won't. As part of my using this platform as a writer, this, for me, needs to be more of a journal --- edited in my head before I can type it in a bright white box in a blogging app.
None the matter, I am starting anew as of this post, and we will see together (me and like the 2 of you that read here) where this blog takes me....
as always, please feel free to post comments and questions, only if they are honest and respectful. I will only edit disrespectful comments
Still convincing myself to write
(Another post from my prev blog, Internally Decapitated...)
My mantra for the week has been: I'm not fuckin' around anymore!
I have been out of the house every day for 3 weeks, I've been on time for appointments and plans, I've gotten on the treadmill, I've been doing my physical therapy exercises, I've been talking to people, reading emphatically, writing, trying to get organized.... In the words of Penny Lane, "It's all happening..."
I've been a procrastinator, lazy, gluttonous. I've been self-righteous and self-hating (don't they always go together?).... 3 weeks ago, my normal day involved dragging my ass out of bed around 12-2 and pretty much laying around watching tv all day. Yes, I admit that it's nice to not have to go to work but it also allows for a lot of waste -- body and mind. I'll never be strong or consistent enough in my body to be able to have a "normal" job, and by that I mean this: I don't know how I will wake up feeling from day to day - I could be ok, or maybe I can't get out of bed or walk. Somedays I can't breathe as well, somedays I almost pass out in the shower from lack of oxygen. I can't promise an employer that I will be able to sit, stand, lift, or even speak. I also can't promise them that I will be at work. My issue isn't not being able to find a job, I truly can't work in the traditional sense of the word. The real issue is what happens when I don't have anywhere I have to be, really no one to answer to...
The last couple weeks have really taught me that I am responsible for everything. If I'm not happy, it's my responsibility to get happy. I can put in place certain rules for myself, wake up by x:xx, shower, be on time, whatever, but NO ONE holds me to any of it but me. Everyone in my life is so used to me missing appointments, bailing out of plans, sleeping all day, avoiding society because it hurts, etc.
Of course it hurts, it's life, and "life is trauma." (Jeanette Winterson)
My mantra for the week has been: I'm not fuckin' around anymore!
I have been out of the house every day for 3 weeks, I've been on time for appointments and plans, I've gotten on the treadmill, I've been doing my physical therapy exercises, I've been talking to people, reading emphatically, writing, trying to get organized.... In the words of Penny Lane, "It's all happening..."
I've been a procrastinator, lazy, gluttonous. I've been self-righteous and self-hating (don't they always go together?).... 3 weeks ago, my normal day involved dragging my ass out of bed around 12-2 and pretty much laying around watching tv all day. Yes, I admit that it's nice to not have to go to work but it also allows for a lot of waste -- body and mind. I'll never be strong or consistent enough in my body to be able to have a "normal" job, and by that I mean this: I don't know how I will wake up feeling from day to day - I could be ok, or maybe I can't get out of bed or walk. Somedays I can't breathe as well, somedays I almost pass out in the shower from lack of oxygen. I can't promise an employer that I will be able to sit, stand, lift, or even speak. I also can't promise them that I will be at work. My issue isn't not being able to find a job, I truly can't work in the traditional sense of the word. The real issue is what happens when I don't have anywhere I have to be, really no one to answer to...
The last couple weeks have really taught me that I am responsible for everything. If I'm not happy, it's my responsibility to get happy. I can put in place certain rules for myself, wake up by x:xx, shower, be on time, whatever, but NO ONE holds me to any of it but me. Everyone in my life is so used to me missing appointments, bailing out of plans, sleeping all day, avoiding society because it hurts, etc.
Of course it hurts, it's life, and "life is trauma." (Jeanette Winterson)
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