There is a terminology for children who grow up with
siblings who have disabilities. I didn’t know about any of this research until
a few years ago. But this terminology is glass
child syndrome, because as children our needs are looked through to attend
to our siblings’ needs. We become self-sufficient, responsible, mature, and
keep our own struggles private (not at all fragile). Some people develop
resentment. I did not. As I began to develop consciousness, I was surrounded by
love and compassion, so that was all that I interpreted my role as. I didn’t
see my role as different from anyone else either. I became the peacemaker, the
person to step up and help every second. I embraced responsibility as an
opportunity for growth. I was the person who noticed when something was missing
and fixed it immediately. I had an extreme spiritual conviction and a deep love
of learning. I carried my own and offered
to carry for others everywhere I could – this was not out of resentment,
fear, duty, nor obligation, but out of unconditional, unapologetic love. This
is the only
way that I understand the world in which we live.
And then,
at sixteen years old, I struck a backhoe, with my head, at a force of
approximately 40 mph. I should not have survived; I did. But now that it’s
sixteen years later, I wonder if that’s all that happened – just my physical
survival. The second time I began to develop consciousness, everything I ever
knew was put
under attack. Physically, my brain was still healing from having a GCS
of 3 and the fire inside because of it. Cognitively,
everything went from 100 to 2 in a fraction of a second. Socially,
my world went from everyone to no
one. I was spiritually
wounded for a long, long time. I truly believed that everyone operated from a “relational”
or unconditional love mindset, and I had no comprehension of transactional
mindsets. To this day, I still only understand transactional mindsets “on
paper.” I can’t even fathom the concept of doing something so that someone else
will do something of equal or greater value. Because I am a “glass child,” and
I kept everything private, others didn’t agree when I would claim to be the
person I truly believed I was before the accident. Because this happened for years,
and years, and years, before I even understood anything about the syndrome or
about the kind of changes that the specific damaged parts
of my brain can cause, my
own self-identity has completely fractured. Which means, the second time I
began to gain consciousness after the coma and relearning everything from
breathing, swallowing, walking, talking, etc, I started to question if the
first time actually happened, or if it mattered, or if I was making at least
parts of it up.
May 12,
2010 my life
was saved. But my selfhood was not. My
body eventually regained alertness, consciousness, thoughts, movement, etc. But
my identity has never made sense post-accident. As soon as I was able to recognize
that I had a
head injury at all,
I immediately wanted my distance from it. The TBI hurt people I loved. The
TBI destroyed me, but that’s at the bottom of the totem pole, it hurt everyone
I love. It still does – not as often, but it still does. I
don’t want to be synonymous with the brain trauma. But where does Shannon
end and the brain injury begin?
Does
Shannon even exist absent the head injury? Or is it only the head injury wearing
Shannon’s name and her hard earned qualities and attributes? With more of
my life now being occupied by the TBI, I don’t know if there is such a thing as
Shannon without the trauma. That is why this anniversary hits so much harder.
Sixteen years is how many years I got to live as Shannon as I know her – giving
FAR more than she ever took. But for the last sixteen years and pending, all
this … being…. does is take. Remember that the only way I’ve ever understood my
own existence is through my usefulness and love through service. Now that it’s
been 16 years, my neediness has outlasted the time and eclipsed the identity
where I was helpful. I feel as though being a burden makes me less worthy of
being, therefore, how can I exist at all now?
I’ve literally been trying to
articulate this concept for years (which is why most of these hyperlinks are in
here). But people mistake it as me refusing to move on, nostalgia, me needing
better self-esteem or some other choice that I can make about my own progress.
But that is not what it is. Nor is
it about having enough self-love, it’s about knowing if there even is a
self to love. For the first time in my life, I don’t even know what “me” refers
to.
Finally, regarding comments, when
your reality has been challenged long enough, reassurance
can start to feel less like comfort and more like erasure. That doesn’t
mean that I don’t want comments. I LOVE comments. And the thing that buoys
me up more than anything are the comments that say something along the lines of
“wow, I can relate, thank you for giving me a voice.”
