Is There a Self After TBI?

     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.”

Broken Interior

     For my birthday during COVID, I described my life like the destroyed Nauvoo temple or the burned tabernacle that became the Provo City Center temple. I talked about how every bit of my life was beaten and demolished – except for the foundation. At that time, I was trying to figure out how I could continue to grow when I felt all was lost. So I found the little that was not lost - the foundation of faith, Christ, family support, and core values. However, trauma – especially to the brain – acts more like building a concrete foundation on a fault line. So, I need to build a “base isolation” - the secondary foundation that allows seismic activity to occur underneath the building without causing damage to the structure itself. Furthermore, I need to strengthen the existing foundation using the technique retrofitting. My concrete foundation is still very, very strong. The other two are not – though for the sake of this post I am going to mostly combine them. They could be described as the structural/psychological foundation (which includes identity continuity, cognitive stability, confidence, nervous system regulation, and developmental trajectory) and the relational foundation (which includes friendships, belonging, social mirrors, etc.). While in 2020, I was focused on growth, now I need space to mourn the things that never should have been lost. I need people to know that the parts of me that let me feel like myself were destroyed, even though those are pieces that no one else can see.  

It is actually common for houses to look completely fine from the outside after an earthquake even if there is significant internal damage. This is what I feel like has happened to me. Because now that the shell of the temple has been built, people often assume the damage could not have been that severe. Do not get me wrong, it has been SO hard to rebuild the exterior of the temple. But, what they do not see is that visible survival and structural integrity are not the same thing. A building can remain upright while carrying hidden damage everywhere. The beams can weaken. The foundation can shift. The wiring can misfire. Water can get into places no one notices until years later. Rooms can become inaccessible. The original blueprint can be lost. And when people mistake new walls for destroyed rooms, they will often ask “why haven’t you moved on?”

              That’s the problem. Even those closest to me mistake the passage of time for resolution. Or they think that the concrete foundation is all that is needed. Faith will get you through anything, right? Well… maybe… but what if you don’t know who you are? After all, identity is structural/foundational too.  It is not just a name or a personality or the fact that you are still breathing. Identity is memory. Ability. Temperament. Talents. Relationships. Belonging. Confidence. History. The sense of who you were, who you are, and how those two connect. (I lost ALL of those – even if only temporarily). When a major neurological injury disrupts that continuity, the loss is not abstract. It is architectural.

        So, the explosion didn’t just cause damage, it created a gaping hole in who I am. Our brains expect continuity, especially in one’s own identity. We naturally expect care during crisis, explanation, answers, reunion, emotional closure, etc. But I received rupture then silence. Creating my “own closure” doesn’t work because, unfortunately, these wounds require truth, acknowledgement, accountability, answers, and being remembered accurately. Instead, these loops remain open not because I refuse to heal, but because the people holding the missing pieces walked away.

       When people talk about the growth, the adaptations, or the improvements, they are talking about the exterior of the temple. Whereas I talk about the empty structure. I am still sitting in the basement trying to figure out how to build a sturdy foundation using the same broken materials the collapse left behind. What was gained does not settle what was taken. Pieces of me were stolen and no later growth can retroactively make that untrue. When something foundational is fractured and never fully repaired, pressure keeps finding the weak points. The same grief resurfaces. The same questions return. The same memories hold force long after everyone else thinks they should have expired.

              Which means yes, regardless of how long it has been, I’m still going to need to heal. I’m still going to hold on to “little Shannon.” Because little Shannon (pre-TBI Shannon, or original Shannon) is my last anchor point of a known identity. Without identity, we cannot achieve anything – identity functions as the framework of our lives and is crucial to understanding your values, strengths, decisions, and direction. Like proprioception in the brain (which helps your body know where it is), identity is how the self knows where it is. Because my life is so unpredictable and my emotions are so unstable, I have no sense of “identity proprioception” – therefore, no concept of who I am post-accident.

       This is why I have to hold on to little Shannon with everything I have. Because she is the truest source I have to know who I actually am.  I understand how difficult a concept this is; I’ve gone through multiple different metaphors, spent endless time, awoke countless nights, etc. trying to accurately name what never healed. If people misunderstand what happened, the true story gets replaced. If the true story gets replaced, little Shannon gets erased faster. This is one key reason misunderstanding hurts so deeply; because it isn’t just painful to be misunderstood, it’s dangerous to the memory of little Shannon; it’s dangerous to my identity.

     Every time I talk about when I was 16 years old, or the friends I had, or all the things I lost – it’s not stupidity, immaturity or me refusing reality. It’s me trying to understand what happened to the foundation. I am not stuck in the past because I love pain. I am tethered there because something vital was broken open and never closed. The mind repeats what the system has not or cannot integrate. I am trying to keep real losses from being erased by proof of resilience. I want to preserve the truth that standing is not the same as being whole. And because I am my own temple, I am all of the broken pieces that cannot simply be replaced, I am trying to rebuild something honest from those broken pieces. I want to build my temple correctly, no matter how long it takes.

The Messy Middle

The verdict is in. Love via connection is absolutely necessary for brain growth, development and maintenance. Technically, this verdict has been in for a long time, however neuroscientists continue to observe the effects love - or neglect - has on the brain, especially as new technologies become available. Specifically after the recent pandemic, loneliness has skyrocketed, isolation has increased, and more people are suffering depression and other cognitive declines. Why? Because strong social connections support cognitive stimulation, new neural pathways, emotional support, stress reduction and overall well-being.

              Some of our relationships are strong, supportive and build us up; some are neutral; and others tend to drain us, making us feel exhausted after leaving the interaction. What is the difference? It’s easy to believe it may be about common interests, beliefs, age, etc. But what I have found is that is largely irrelevant, especially for one who needs the strength of deeper relationships.

              The key is vulnerability. It’s about dropping the masks; the facades that make you appear perfect. Because true connection doesn’t happen in perfection; it happens in the cracks where the relationship can be mutually beneficial.

I don’t have the option to cover my flaws. I don’t get to curate what people see. The TBI makes darn sure of that. After 15 years, I do a dang good job of hiding how extreme things are, but I cannot disguise every raw emotion and every imperfection. The exhaustion. The overwhelm. The emotional volatility. The cognitive chaos. The way I stumble over things—internally and externally. It’s all there, out in the open, whether I want it to be or not.
I walk into every interaction already exposed.

Therefore, if there’s no visible mess, no cracks, no vulnerability—and when that’s all I ever see, it doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel invisible. Ignored. Like I don’t even exist in their world; I can’t, they have no need for me. I have nothing to contribute.  When I’m standing there, raw and unfiltered, and someone else is polished, composed, and perfect, it doesn’t matter how kind they are. I don’t feel connected. I feel judged, even if they don’t say a word. I feel inferior, even when they’re trying to be helpful. I feel invisible—because their perfection fills the room so completely, there’s no space left for me.

I’m sure that many of these people likely have good intentions. They think that their steadiness is comforting. To a child, it would be; but not to someone who is supposed to be an equal. Unfortunately, it’s worse than that. It’s as though they are on a pedestal, refusing to look me in the eye. When someone approaches me with polished perfection, it feels like they’re speaking at me, not to me—like I’m beneath them. Not in a childlike way. More like a servant. Someone you don’t make eye contact with. Someone you speak around, not with. Someone who exists to listen, not to be listened to. That’s what perfection feels like. Like I’m allowed in the room, but not invited to be human.

               If you want to connect with me, I need you to share something real with me—a struggle, an insecurity, anything that shows you can meet me on my level. It doesn’t have to be huge or devastating, but it has to be honest. You don’t have to share it with everyone, but I need to know that you aren’t perfect. Because connection happens when we drop the masks and meet each other in the messy middle, where no one is flawless and everyone carries burdens. We must first meet in order to connect; and we meet in the messy middle.

Running On Empty By Simply Existing

Most people wake up with some kind of reserve — mental energy, emotional stability, clarity of thought. Some gas in the tank, some charge on the battery. I don’t. I start the day already drained. Not metaphorically. Actually. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. My brain, ever since the TBI, runs like an old phone that never quite charges past 12%. It doesn’t matter how long I “sleep.” There’s no reset. No full bar. Just a blinking battery icon and the knowledge that today, again, I’ll have to ration every percent like my life depends on it.

And people think, “It’s just basic stuff.” But that’s the thing. The basics are the most expensive. Things most people do on autopilot — making a plan, choosing what to wear, remembering what comes next — they’re brutal for me. My brain doesn’t filter or sequence well anymore. Executive function — the part that’s supposed to organize, plan, and follow through — feels like an app that crashes every time I open it. It drains my battery just by trying to load, and then leaves me stuck anyway.

So even a simple morning can feel like trying to run full-speed through mud while alarms are blaring, people are shouting instructions, lights are flashing, and someone keeps throwing random objects in your path. Everything’s loud. Everything’s urgent. Everything’s too much. And all I’m trying to do is put on clothes and remember if I already put on deodorant.

The to-do list is always too long, too loud, too much — and somehow still missing pieces. I used to be able to knock it out. Now, I can’t start, can’t recall what was next, can’t finish even one thing without burning out. And that’s before anyone else even sees me. That’s all internal. That’s all before the world even starts asking things of me.

And I know how it looks. That’s the worst part. I’m fully, painfully aware of how ridiculous it seems that brushing my hair or answering a message or walking into a grocery store can break me. So I tell myself the same thing I imagine everyone else is thinking: This is so stupid. Why are you like this? Just function already. That voice isn’t helpful. It’s not accountability. It’s a leech. That judgment drains me faster than anything else. It takes whatever little reserve I had left and throws it in the trash.

Because that’s the brutal truth no one sees: I don’t just lose energy from tasks — I lose it from trying to live with the fact that they’re hard. I burn out from the guilt, the shame, the constant internal resistance. Every small thing becomes a war. Not just doing the thing, but fighting my brain to do it, and then hating myself for needing to fight at all.

And yet… somehow I keep going. I’ve run on empty more times than I can count. I’ve had nothing left and still managed to smile, show up, pretend. Some days, I’m like one of those glitchy phones that says 1% but somehow keeps playing music for another twenty minutes. I don’t know how. I don’t know where that last drop comes from. But I find it. And I keep going.

I’m not lazy. I’m tired. And I’m trying with more than I am even able.

I Am Not the Injury… Except When I Am

I can fake normal pretty well now. After 15 years, I’ve learned how to hold a conversation that sounds like me. Most of the time, it’s a blend — Shannon mixed with the TBI. Sometimes, the TBI takes over completely. And every once in a blue moon, it’s just me. In those rare moments, I almost believe I’m still whole.

But that illusion shatters the moment pain walks in.

It all shifts the moment something stings a little too deeply — a reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I’ll never get back. Usually, it comes when I’m around people I love. Watching them live dreams that once belonged to me. The mission I planned. The college life I expected. The love, the marriage, the children, the travel, the progression. I want all of it for them. I really do. But no amount of love for them can silence the ache in my chest when I remember it was supposed to be mine, too.

And that’s when it happens.

Dissociation.

Only this time, it's not me stepping away from the TBI. It’s the TBI taking over. I shut down. Shannon — the real me — runs to a corner of my mind and stares at the wall. She hides. She vanishes. And the brain injury takes the wheel.

Sometimes I lash out — get sharp, angry. Sometimes I shrink down and disappear. Either way, the one behind my eyes in those moments is not me. It's the scrambled neurons and the fractured wires. It’s not a person. It’s just pain.

And with it comes that familiar, vicious voice:
“You’re not even human anymore.”
“Everything you do is an act.”
“You’re an imposter.”

When I try to do something normal — something light or typical, like putting my hair in braids — the voice hisses again: “You’re pretending. You don’t belong in this world anymore. You’re just a broken brain trying to wear a costume.”

That’s what imposter syndrome looks like when you’ve lived through a TBI. It’s not just self-doubt. It’s self-erasure. It’s watching yourself vanish and trying to pretend you're still here. It’s begging to be seen as human when you can’t even feel human.

If you’ve ever felt this way — if you’ve ever felt like your pain has pushed you out of your own life — I see you.

And if you’re caring for someone who lives in that gap between identity and injury, please know: it’s not just sadness or grief. It’s a full-body, full-soul effort to stay here. To stay real. To keep trying.

We are not our injuries. But some days, our injuries speak louder than we can.

(I'm finally going through old drafts and reworking them, adding new insights and posting them, so expect quite a few for the next little while).

Abandonment Does Not Define Your Worth

 Since my accident, I have felt completely worthless. I have been shamed and disgraced. I was discarded from friend groups that wouldn’t be friends if it weren’t for me. My best friends replaced me. The first boy I ever loved told me I was a threat to society. I was used, abandoned, forgotten. For fifteen years, this has shaped how I see myself: irrelevant, replaceable, like my existence is a net negative—or at best, a big fat zero. Even though, for the first sixteen years of my life, all I ever did was make the people around me feel better.

I recently asked a friend why he loved me—why I mattered to him. He told me it was because I have infinite worth. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I needed more than just “infinite worth.” I wanted to know why I mattered to him. I wanted him to tell me how I helped him, or shaped him, why/how I am unique and irreplaceable to him.

Then my mom gave me an analogy that provided another perspective. She said our time on Earth is like a big puzzle. Without even one piece, the puzzle isn’t complete. That means every person is irreplaceable—not because of what they do, but simply because they belong. Even though that analogy sounds great, the abandonment, the pain, the heartache has attacked my internal worth for the last fifteen years. It didn’t affect me much on a personal level. But it did sound like a great illustrator to help you see what I’m trying to explain—and maybe it can begin to shift my mindset, even though that means rewiring a hard fifteen years.

Part of my problem has been that I didn’t have the right language for this. Semantics really is a big deal after TBI—and my speech therapist will attest to that! Once I was able to separate worth and value, things began to shift.

My worth is infinite, inherent, and unearned. It doesn’t change whether I’m having a good day or a terrible one. It doesn’t depend on what anyone else thinks or how many people show up for me. Worth is who I am as a child of God—equal to everyone else, neither better nor worse.

Value, on the other hand, can often feel transactional. It’s how we see the effect we have on others and the world around us. That value exists whether or not someone else recognizes it—but our ability to feel that value is often tied to whether they reflect it back to us. Our perception of value is what’s fragile and fleeting. Heavenly Father sees the whole picture—the eternal perspective—and so He can see our full value, even when we can’t.

I still don’t feel valued or appreciated. The loneliness of feeling irrelevant and unseen has left me with zero value in my own eyes. But I’ve finally been able to begin to understand that I still have worth, even though I don’t feel valued or appreciated. I’m trying to embrace it when someone tells me I make a difference, when someone shows they see me.

If you’re struggling with worth, remember that your worth is no different than anyone else’s.
If you’re struggling with value, try to remember that your value doesn’t disappear just because others don’t reflect it back to you. It’s not about productivity or recognition. It’s about the impact you make, even when you can’t see it.
And if you’ve been like me for the last fifteen years, maybe just knowing there’s a difference between worth and value might help. I hope so.

The Coveted Virtue of Hope

 

Hope has always felt like something just beyond my grasp—like a distant star I can see but never quite reach. I want it. I crave it. I covet it. But more often than not, it slips through my fingers, leaving me in the dark, clutching at shadows.

And the hard truth? I rarely feel worthy of hope. It’s not that I don’t know what it looks like—I've seen it in others, glowing quietly in their eyes, pulling them forward. But for me, it flickers only when I feel like I matter. When someone sees me, values me, chooses to stay.

That doesn’t happen often. Or maybe it does and I just struggle to believe it.

I know this might make me sound dependent or needy—words I’ve spent years trying to
run from. But I’m not writing this to convince you of my strength. I’m writing this because I need something that I can’t create alone. I need someone. Maybe not forever. But someone—anyone—who is willing to show up, even briefly, and remind me that I matter.

Because even fleeting moments of worth can echo louder and longer than the silence of being alone.

This isn’t a cry for attention—it’s a quiet, honest plea for connection. Not from any one specific person, but from the people in my life who might read this and feel something stir. If that’s you, then maybe this is for you.

I wish I could say I’m strong on my own. But I’m not. Not always. I’m extroverted, yes—but it’s more than that. I don’t just enjoy people. I need people. I find my worth through their eyes, through their presence, through knowing that someone wants me around. And I hate that, sometimes. I wish I could fix it. But right now, I just need to be honest about it.

So I’m saying this to whoever is meant to hear it: Please don’t let me go. Don’t assume I’ll be fine if you back away. Sometimes, the smallest gesture can keep me afloat. Even if it’s not forever.

This is me, reaching out—because I still believe in the possibility of being held through the storm, even when I don’t believe in much else.

So I’ll say it again, not for drama, but for truth: I covet the virtue of hope. And I’m asking—can you help me find it?

Covenantal Love

        I have written many times regarding the insurmountable nature of trauma that our body holds onto. Yet, for those who have not experienced such trauma, it continues to appear incomprehensible. While I could attempt to explain myself or I could attempt to prove that my feelings are justified, I have learned that is a losing battle. Talking about hardships and struggles doesn’t get you anywhere (despite what the victim narrative of the current world would have you believe). Therefore, I will not be rehearsing all the painstakingly agonizing heartbreaks I have endured over the past week, few months, or even years. Instead, today I wish to express the relationship I have had with the Atonement of my Lord, Jesus Christ over the last 15 years.

            Some years ago, as I was desperately crying, in my mother’s loving nature she expressed that she wished that she could take my pain from me. My immediate thought was, “absolutely no, you would not, not if you had a clue what this feels like.” However, because of my deep, thoughtful nature as I contemplated more on this interaction, I began to consider that Jesus did know how painful it would be. Yet not only did He take on that one instance, He took on every instance, for everyone. Indeed, 1 Nephi 21:16 says “I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.” And He did it willingly!

           He did it for the same reason my mom expressed her desire, out of pure love. Love that transcends pain; love that supersedes inadequacy; love that replaces fear with faith; love that turns anxiety into comfort; love that is whole, perfect, and infinite because of Jesus Christ. Since I had that realization, I have seen the sacrament differently. Rather than simply a renewal of covenants or reviewing the week and observing where I need to do better, I take it as an honor to be able to take His name upon me, because He engraved my name upon Him! I choose how much I hold His name to mine every day, but He already chose me.

            Over the years, after the heartaches, the mood swings, the tears, the minor rejoicings, the tug of wars, the dissociations, the post-traumatic-stress attacks, etc. I have concluded that I am engraved on far more than the palm of His hand. He engraved my entire soul, not just my afflictions, but everything into part of HIS. In the garden of Gethsemane, in a way that no human being will ever be able to comprehend, Jesus Christ went through and suffered for each and everyone of God’s children, individually. In that garden, He took my soul and allowed it to become a part of His soul. This further allows Him to be my advocate with full, 100% empathy and understanding. Therefore, there is nothing that I go through that He does not understand. He understands not only from an objective perspective, but also from my personal perspective. He is there to hear every uttered plea, every silent prayer, and even moments when words won’t come. He sees us in our heartache. He feels our frustration. He cries with us. Even in the moments I have felt the most alone – the moments I can’t even feel my Heavenly Family - I still cry out in desperation. I know He hears, even though nothing changes. Nothing changes because of a higher, more perfect plan. Yet I still know He hears because He loves us with the love that transcends pain; love that supersedes inadequacy; love that replaces fear with faith; love that turns anxiety into comfort; love that is whole, perfect, and infinite, because of Jesus Christ. And I have felt that love – not often, but enough to fight with vigor to return to feel that love every single second of eternity.

            That is not all. The first great commandment is to love God with all our hearts, souls, strength and mind. This is by no accident. Without full purpose of all we have to love God, everything else can fall by the wayside. Most importantly, we lose sight of the Love that the Godhead has for us. We become distracted by things of this world and take our eyes off Him as did Peter when he walked on water to meet Christ. We are not faithful in the covenant we made at baptism to always remember Him and take His name upon us. He will always stay faithful to the covenant, after all, He engraved my name, and your name, into His very soul. But these are nice words that we don’t often know how to apply. So let me tell you how I have applied them.

            Repentance is a word we hear often, but for a long time, it was a dirty word to me. I have learned however, that repentance is not just about making up for mistakes I have made, it’s about turning to Jesus and saying take me into your embrace, just hold me, and help me become more like Thee. Help me love my neighbor; help me be gentler with myself; help me see what you see; help me process my emotions; help me get through this terrible thing; or simply help me, please, just help. By doing this over and over again, Jesus begins to engrave His soul into our countenance. As this occurs, despite all our flaws, mistakes, or imperfections, the covenant that we made with Christ will fill in all of those gaps at the final day of judgement. Not only will this magnificent Jesus Christ be our perfect advocate, He will also be the finisher to our perfection. When God Almighty looks to judge us at the last day, if we have stayed faithful to our covenant, Heavenly Father will not see our flaws. He will not see our mistakes, because Jesus has already covered them. Jesus is in relentless pursuit of each and everyone of us because He has already done the work. If we do what we can, by turning to Him, and choosing Him every day, we will not have to worry.

 

Cognitive Disability

 As a society, we recognize 2 types of disabilities; visible physical disabilities and intellectual disabilities. While some people who suffer a chronic TBI do end up with one of these kinds of disabilities, I do not. Yet, I do still have a disability, one that is very hard to explain. Or at least that's what I said to my speech therapist a couple weeks ago (speech therapists do more than just help with dictation). But he said, "no, it's not!" He proceeded to explain that intellect is about knowledge and cognition is about processing of that knowledge. Or in other words, I don't have a problem with information, I have a problem with processing. To prove it, I'll insert a quippy line I thought of while writing this post: I'm still sharp as a tack, but no longer quick as a whip. :) 

My understanding of processing has evolved - it has had to. Originally, I thought processing, at least in regards to this, was about understanding information. And while that is definitely a part of it, and yes, learning does take much longer and is such a strenuous effort now, that is far from all of what it means to process information. Processing also involves how you go about organizing and completing a task or project. This is key. I'll talk more about this later on. But even with these 2 explanations, I didn't feel quite satisfied that it explained everything that I experience. So, I went looking for more definitions across the internet. I came across many different definitions, such as:  the act of mentally or emotionally absorbing and making sense of what one has experienced or perceived; the act of ... making decisions and following up with appropriate action. Things started becoming clearer (especially with my dad's explanation that I'll write later on). Then, while writing this post, I realized that I knew what processing disorders are when they are associated with a single sense, such as an auditory processing disorder, a visual processing disorder, or even a sensory processing disorder! But I had yet to integrate all of these different senses (including smells, touch, taste, and just plain thinking) into my understanding of what a "cognitive processing disorder" is. 

The organizing and completing a task is the part that I think is most extreme with an injured brain. Let me illustrate by using an obvious example, but think of it applied to every aspect of life. You're making cookies. There are multiple steps. A "normal" person doesn't have to even think about these steps. But someone with a head injury not only has to think about them but will get the sequence out of order and will end up frustrated, confused, feeling stupid, and belittled. Furthermore, (my speech therapist says) we can't hold more than 1-3 tasks in our brains at a time. Someone with a head injury could, in theory, throw all the flour on the cookie sheet, preheat the oven, crack an egg on top of the flour, then get out a bowl, put sugar in the bowl, and a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon of salt, mix that up, throw that on top of the egg on top of the flour, then put some baking soda on top and then top it all off with chocolate chips before putting it in the oven to cook. Do you think cookies will come from that? This is broken processing in action.

While this example is extreme, it illustrates the disjointed way that the processing can occur in everyday activities, which is where the disability really applies. The simple, monotonous tasks like getting ready, picking things up, hanging up clothes, putting dishes away from the dishwasher, etc. It's not like I don't know how to do these things. It is because the ability to use that knowledge has been disrupted due to the broken brain. These extra difficulties cause the brain to become frustrated. When the brain is frustrated, the person understandably gets irritable and angry. Which, among other things, is why a person can seem so irate, irrational, and mean after a head injury. It takes time and a lot of work to accept that this is the way life just is (aka radical acceptance) and stop letting your brain's frustration show. It takes so many resources to do these every day simple tasks, especially while managing the fire in your brain, that in order to preserve these resources, it is far easier to avoid doing these tasks completely than waste them on stupid things that we should be able to do no sweat. 

 I'll talk about ways that my speech therapist has suggested to deal with this in a future post, but for now, I thought it was important to help others understand what I am just beginning to process. ;) 

Chaos

I’ve talked about how frustrating the invisible nature of a traumatic brain injury is before.  Today I am going to address it but in a slightly different way, one that can likely apply to many more people than just those with unseen injuries. We all have different masks that we wear in different situations. When you are meeting with your boss, you don’t want to display all of your pains and complaints; but when you are meeting with your doctor, you may very well want to do just that. This conditional expression of our feelings applies especially to mental health. Even when we appear to be doing “fine,” we may be experiencing turmoil and distress just beneath the surface.

              This prevailing sense of “I’m not okay” often comes from a feeling of complete and total internal chaos. This chaos is something that cannot be seen by others, (except the rare times that an anxiety attack emerges). But my brain, like many others, is constantly on fire, while trying to extinguish the flames of chaos.

              Something that I have studied and advocated for a long time is the chaos of your external surroundings are often a good indication of the chaos of your internal world. And one of the best things to do to restore order to the chaos inside of your mind is actually to organize something in your external world. Somehow, it actually allows your brain to sort through and organize some of the crazy thoughts or synapses firing all the time.

              So, with that in mind, you would think that my house is ALWAYS a complete mess. But, remember what I started this post with. Someone can still be in immense chaos, even if it is not seen. Therefore, my house can appear very clean sometimes, but I have no idea where things are, my drawers are a mess and I feel such a lack of control that I become incapable of doing anything at all.

              This is the place I have been in literally ALL year long. And I have been so frustrated with myself for it. I have felt worthless and stuck. So, if I ended the post here, while it may help give someone a voice, it would still feel pretty hopeless. However, last night, I received a priesthood blessing that changed everything! I was reminded that when God the Father created the Earth, He looked upon it and saw it as good. But He also saw that there would be much chaos that would descend upon the Earth. He saw that there would be a great upheaval that needed a Deliverer. So He sent His Son, Jesus Christ. Through Jesus, there was order, there was peace even amongst all of the chaos. And even among the great, miraculous, and infinite source of peace Jesus created throughout the entire universe, He will still be my individual vehicle for peace throughout the tumultuous seas inside my broken brain. In fact, that is the only way to overcome the constant chaos within me. I must pray to the Father, in Christ’s name, to help master the chaos I feel.

Finding Peace in Pain

No one can even fathom what it feels like to live my life. Everything I do, I'm constantly surrounded by triggers to my PTSD. I talk somewhat often about how pain is very relative and my "level 4" would probably kill the average person. Some words carry more weight than a ton of bricks to me whereas to others it's just any other word. Even worse, one of those specific words - abandonment - is one that not even my best friend for the longest time post accident (love you Trish) has much of a clue about because it's something I still just can't talk about. I learned that a few months ago when I mentioned something about High School graduation to her and she hadn't heard the story.... Because some things are still too painful. Heck, there are quite a few memories that I don't even have access to because my brain simply will not allow me to remember them. I still have dire aversions to situations, or strange longings that I don't understand, but no memories of situations or people. So please, do not misunderstand me in the second half of this post. I am not saying that my life is easy; I am not saying that I enjoy any part of it. However, I wouldn't trade my knowledge of this gospel for anything, especially given everything that I go through. 

I believe we each have a special "dispensation." This means that the Lord, and our Heavenly Parents have a perfect understanding of our lives - challenges, strengths, abilities, afflictions, etc. Most people's dispensations fall much closer to the "ideal" mold. Mine however, most definitely does not. My Heavenly Family know of my deep, deep desires to be better, to learn more, to take care of my body, to have a deeper relationship with them, so on and so forth.... They love that more than I comprehend. But they cry with me when I am so frustrated by my limitations. They are sad when I beat up on myself for not running faster than I have strength. Our Heavenly Parents are much closer and integrated in our lives than we fathom. Heavenly Father wants nothing more than to talk to us, to build/re-build a relationship. He knew that in order for us to grow and attain all He wants to give us, there had to be a veil. We had to face temptations, evil, and carnal desires. It hurts Him when we try to face the world on our own, refusing to ask Him for help. He always wants to help us. It may not happen the way we always want, but His desire is always there. We can't always just expect His will to happen because He respects our agency. He rarely takes away our struggles or pains, but instead He offers strength so we can face it. 

5000 Days

I often think back on the Shannon I became in the first ~16 years of my life. I look back on her with great honor, respect and admiration - all for good reason. She instilled within me a passion for learning, an unconditional love for all my brothers and sisters in this world, a joy for celestial music, a yearning for knowledge of truth and eternity, courage to take on this ugly world, faith to withstand any persecution, and the valiance to face it fearlessly. What I didn't know then was just how tumultuous all of that could mean. 

Did early saints know how rough the road would be when they left their homes behind? Did Paul know what he signed up for when he agreed to testify of Christ? Did Daniel know what would happen if he chose to pray? Did Nephi know what the Lord would command him to do after he promised that he would be obedient? Did Joseph Smith know how persecuted he would be after going to the woods to pray? 

No. They did not. But the Lord, in His infinite mercy and love, said, "okay, prove it." In like manner, I used to say, "I'm grateful it happened to me instead of someone else." So, I can imagine the Lord, in an infinitely loving way say, "prove it." 

All of the pain, tribulations, heartache, etc. is not a way of the Lord punishing His own. But rather it is a way to sand off the rough edges, to be shaped and molded like clay, to wash away all the flaws and earthly imperfections, to be refined by mercy's fire. He does not enjoy watching us cry, but in His infinite wisdom, He lets us learn from falling, just as we do when teaching a baby to walk. After all, if we do not learn from falling, we'll never learn to walk; and if we do not learn from ourselves, how can we trust what we know?

"Everyone will fall a time or two, and time and mercy heal the wounds. But the most important thing you can do is whisper a prayer, then as soon as you dare, try again. .... Even if the world has seen you crying, try again. And the Lord will see you through, and He'll be there to catch you when you fall."

So, through everything I've been through over the last 5000 days, I hope that despite all of my failures, my heartaches, my turmoil and pain, I hope that maybe I have done what I said I'd do when I told God I would return. Because "I am living proof that His love is real." "He heals, He knows, He gives, He cares, He hears, He shows, He's always there, and I'm living proof." 

P.S. thanks to Cherie Call and Hilary Weeks for their beautiful songs linked below 

Prove Me - Hilary Weeks 

Try Again - Cherie Call

Living Proof - Hilary Weeks

I Choose to Go Back

My anniversary (May 12) is super hard every year. Every cell of our body remembers trauma and anticipates anniversaries of severely traumatic events. I have found that it helps for me to get feedback from others. I'll ask them why they are glad that I chose to come back after my accident, when I could've stayed on the other side of the veil. Or I'll ask what kind of difference I've made in their lives. Sometimes it's helpful just to know that I have made an impact, even if it's very small. This year, I asked my good friend, Matt Whitaker to write a letter or make a video for me. He told me that when he put his pen to paper, it came out as a poem. It is the most beautiful poem I've ever heard. So, with his permission, this is the poem. 

“I Choose To Go Back”

She felt the love of Heaven’s Embrace,

Saw the light of a Heavenly Face.

Then heard the words: “They’re pleading for you.

What, dear child, would thou have me do?”

And as she looked into Eternal Eyes

She could hear the echoes of her family’s cries.

And her heart was filled with the faith to ask,

“Would it be alright if I chose to go back?”

In response came a gentle nod

As grateful tears filled the Eyes of God.

“I love you, child, with all that I Am,

For your valiance and trust in the Eternal Plan.

I know that you know how hard this will be

To go back through the veil of mortality.

Back to a body that’s broken and bruised.

Is this what you want? Is this what you choose?”

She paused for a moment, as if deep in thought,

Considering something that she had been taught

By her mom and her dad, her sisters and brothers,

That happiness comes in the service of others.

And so, with a heart filled with hope and with kindness

She squared up her shoulders and made up her mind

That no matter how hard or how steep the path,

She would do it for others, she would choose to go back.

And knowing down deep in her soul it was best,

She whispered to Heaven the Word: She said, “Yes.”

With one more embrace, one more lingering smile,

God spoke to her heart, “I’ll be with you, my child.”

Then turning, she made her way back to our side

Of the veil, where she could only gently confide,

With the squeeze of a hand, “Yes, I’m back and I hear you.

And I want you to know that I chose to be near you.

And often I’ll ask for your help as I go,

For blessings of strength and direction to know

How I can serve and progress on the path,

How to remember I chose to come back.”

And so every morning she picks up her cross.

She shoulders the pain and the lingering loss.

She makes her way forward one step at a time

Up the path, up the mountain she promised to climb.

And with her example we look on in wonder.

“How does she carry the burden she’s under?

How does she reach out to others beside her

And pick up their crosses and make them feel lighter?”

The Answer, of course, is the One that she follows,

The One who carried the cross made for all

Of our sorrows and trials and troubles and pain.

She knows He’s the Path back to Heaven Again.

And that’s why she asks for our help on the way

That’s why we’re blessed and able to say

That because of our weakness and all that we lack

We’re so grateful she whispered, “I choose to go back.”

Beautifully Imperfect Family

 God is perfect in His omniscience, omnipotence, and omnibenevolence. He knows all things, He has the power over all things, but He also has the perfect love for all things. His deepest love is for His children, you and me. Before Earth, I believe that we were able to consider the trials and challenges that we would face. God the Father knew the perfect situation to put us into to allow us to flourish - sometimes in this life, and sometimes not. But more importantly, He knew what we would need to get through the hardest of times. For me, one of those supporting figures is my dear family - near and far, old and young, close and distant, with all of our imperfections, nay, because of all of our imperfections. After all, these imperfections is what makes me able to thrive. 

I have been extremely blessed into a unique family situation that very, very few others have ever had. I am the youngest with two sisters with disabilities. This has been exactly what I've needed for various reasons, but I'll get to that in a second, let's back it up first. My paternal grandparents - they were/are the most incredible people anyone had the chance to meet. It saddens me greatly that I can't remember much about them. But my grandma was incredibly loving and generous. She was an incredible baker and she loved to bring joy to others by baking. I remember sitting at their house with my grandpa eating homemade round bread with homemade jam and chocolate milk. She knew how to make the perfect pies and would deliver them to people on a frequent basis. She had the ultimate green thumb, but most importantly, she loved her family. With my grandpa, they built a foundation for an eternal family that would stay close - 2nd cousins, first cousins twice removed, and beyond. My grandpa was a chemistry professor at BYU and he developed debilitating Parkinsons later in life. Yet, he was a man completely without guile. Even as he watched my grandma suffer and die from cancer, he never complained. He never had an ill word to speak about anyone - even after they would steal, lie or cheat. He taught important truths of eternity using fundamentals of chemistry. I never knew my mom's dad because he died before I was born. But I know that he was a hard worker and that my grandma worked the rest of her life to be back with him after she died. That grandma was always the crazy old lady - at least that was my young child interpretation of dementia. But I got to know her on a more spiritual level as she was about to leave this Earth. During this time I came to understand how close she was to our Savior; how she wanted to bring all of His children back to Him in any way she could. She went on 7 (I think) missions - even a proselyting mission in her 80s! - and she did so much family history work. She expressed a desire to be "home," and while others weren't sure what she meant because she was at home, I knew. I knew that she wanted to be home with Father in Heaven because of my same desires.

Then we have my parents. My dad is very smart. He can put things together and synthesize things that no one else can. I got my intelligence and my left brain thinking especially from my dad. My mom has the most sincere and genuine heart. She can listen and reassure in ways that only she can. I often say that my dad is my head while my mom is my heart. When I have intellectual issues, I go to my dad; but when I have big emotions, I go to my mom. She often feels that intellect is more important, because that's what society places higher value to. But I could never be where I am today without her unique influence on my heart and spirit. Not to mention that she helps me with all sorts of other things too, like organizing, cleaning, gardening, cooking, etc. Although, despite all of their traits, the thing that is most beneficial to me is all of the hardship they have endured as a married couple. Having 2 children born with disabilities was anything but easy. Having all of their children be so diverse in ability, personality, spirituality, etc. was also difficult. And then, there was my accident. But I don't believe I could've been any luckier than to have them as my parents. And yes, of course I have siblings to thank for that as well. 

My second oldest brother, Nathan has a daughter who developed leukemia when she was only 3 years old. Because of this, my brother does everything he can to better understand what it feels like to have a brain injury on a personal level. My oldest sister, who is 12 years older than me, was born with Rett Syndrome. Rett Syndrome is a genetic anomaly that halts development around 18 months old. Boys don't usually live past 2 years old. It varies for girls but there is no prognosis after they reach 40. My sister is almost 42, which is a miracle in and of itself. But she taught my parents a lot about learning and adapting to unrealized expectations. She taught my parents a lot of patience and empathy. She continues to teach them to love someone beyond their disability. And then there is Tonya. She has her own unique set of disabilities. But, Tonya is the most amazing friend and sister anyone could ever have. We have always been the best of friends - long before we came to Earth - and I believe that we agreed to always have each others' backs when we needed it. In this way, she is my "borka." (It's a word I made up, don't worry about it. The meaning of it is everything that Tonya is to me and everything I am to Tonya.) She still doesn't always understand the brain injury, but she is aware that there are times that I am just sad, frustrated, upset, etc. because my "brain is broken." And in those moments, she is there for me. She will hold me, cuddle me, or bring me a kitty cat when that's exactly what I need. She doesn't know what to say, and that's more than okay. Often times, there isn't anything to say. She loves with all her heart. And I can feel that love. 

I also have 2 more wonderful siblings, Aaron and Kate, but the point I'm trying to make is that our Omnipotent Father in Heaven knows exactly what we need and he places trials and tragedies in our lives for a purpose. He knew that I would need a very understanding, compassionate parents and siblings who knew firsthand what disabilities can do to a person. He knew I would need a close extended family to call upon when all of my friends left me. He knew that I would need the gospel in my life, He knew the exact family I would need to be able to endure through something as hard and as terrible as my unique traumatic brain injury. 

Lost All Hope

 Since the holiday break, I have been a total mess. My anxiety has been through the roof. Nightmares have been constant, and worse and worse. Therefore sleep barely happens and when it does it's anything but restful. I have given up on so many things in life. I've given up on having a head/face that is in any way, shape or form normal. I've given up on having a body that actually works. I've given up on the chance of ever finding love or even a friendship that will last very long. Heck, even having many friends that won't later give me more abandonment issues. I've given up ever feeling happy or just not anxious. I've lost hope. I've given up the idea that the second coming is right around the corner, which is where all of my hope came from. I've given up the idea of ever looking or at least feeling beautiful. I've been forced to give up all of my hopes and dreams and attempt to create new ones. Cautiously I'd try. But I have no hope in anything at all anymore. 

I released the podcast hoping it would give me a sense of purpose; feeling like I could help someone. I know that none of the episodes so far would do that, but I have been stifled and unable to produce anything since right before the holidays. What is currently being released was pre-recorded. I can't seem to find it within myself to finish a script. I can't finish anything. 

I don't want to do anything. I haven't felt this low in a very, very long time. And I don't know how to pick myself up from this one. When I have been this low before, I didn't have as clear of a head on my shoulders. I thought that suicide was the answer. I know now that wouldn't solve anything, and would only make things worse for those I love. I had backup supports, medications, things I enjoyed, etc. But those things are gone, no longer work, or are no longer enjoyable. I don't have a prescription for this one. I've learned (the hard way) what to do every other time. But this time, today, for the last month, I just don't. 

And My Journey Continues

As the persistent readers of this blog know, I have been blessed to be extraordinarily high functioning for the trauma that I sustained. Particularly blessed in both my intellect as well as my self awareness. Unfortunately, the increased awareness and knowledge makes the loss and grief more painful. I do not believe that this was from the magnificence of medicine, nor by mere accident. But rather through a God of miracles with a specific plan and purpose for specifically me. 

Before my accident, I had a mindset of "why not me?" When life hit me hard, I would think about how I was able to handle the challenges with strength, maintain my testimony of the Gospel, and gain the ability to provide empathy for others. In no way did it change the difficulty, but rather it provided perspective and longsuffering. The accident changed that for me however. I felt that I had been dealt a hand that was far too hard. Yet over the years, as I've continued to grieve, to grow, to learn, to receive priesthood blessings, to ponder, to synergize thoughts with others, etc. I have slowly but surely began to return bit by bit to that mindset. I am still not fully there again, but I have felt strength as others go through something challenging and I can often respond with true compassion, love, and suggestions based on my unique real life experience. 

I have a real passion for loving and helping others, which is a huge struggle with a TBI. Because of the brain injury, helping people in any "normal" capacity is beyond my limitations. So, being able to help others in empathy, compassion, and suggestions through their own difficulties is the best way I have found to fulfil that desire. After observing this pattern in myself and trying to create some sort of alternative way to increase that fulfilment, I decided to start a podcast. 

The podcast will be called "After You've Fallen." My desire is to provide coping skills, managing techniques, and insights to a myriad of challenges an individual can face. I have endured through some extremely difficult physical, mental, emotional, sexual, social, and cognitive issues, and I am still going through them. I wish to connect with others to make them feel like they are not alone, and there is always hope. I have just begun to appreciate the fact that I have been dealing with the post-brain-injury effects for 12+ years. I have recognized that I have learned ways to combat many difficulties that others struggle with for the first time. 

Please share this podcast with others you might know. I do not expect every episode to relate to everyone. But, there might be one or two episodes in particular that can reach someone in a dark place. I'm going to be releasing this podcast on (I think) every podcast forum as well as on "After You've Fallen" YouTube. There is an official Instagram page that I'll be updating with each new episode. The first episode will be released on the 9th of January and it will be giving a little bit of background and some of what's in store for future episodes. The second episode will actually be on Thursday the 12th, telling the story of the accident. After that, each episode will be every Monday. Join me on the journey next week! 

It's Not an Excuse

I had quite a few things figured out before my accident, at 16 years old. One of those things was to not care what other people think about me. For the most part, that still exists. But not always... so yesterday I sat and tried to figure out why. After pondering for a little bit, I discovered the heartbreaking truth. 

I do not care what people think about me - if it's something that I can control. My likes and dislikes, my appearance, my opinions, etc are all things that I have control over. These things I couldn't care less if people agree or disagree. The things that I have no control over however, those are the things that really bother me. At first glance, that doesn't make any sense. If you can't change it, why care what other people think? The problem is that everyone else thinks that I can change it. 

"Stop using your TBI as an excuse!" "When are you going to grow up and take actual responsibility?" "The next time you blame your TBI for anything, I'm done." Etc. are all things that I hear far too often. When people say these kinds of things to me, it invalidates all of my attempts to win the fight I am constantly in.  The absolute worst part is, that I place extreme value in accountability. It is very, very important to me that I take responsibility for the actions I do have control over and to work hard at correcting the mistakes I have made. These mistakes include times that the understanding of consequences has eluded me, times the fatigue takes over and the TBI runs the show, times that I lack social filters, among many others. I am not yet the master of the brain injury, but I challenge its dominance more than you could imagine. There are far too many times that "Shannon" loses control. But there are also several symptoms that I have overcome. The discouraging thing is that the vast majority of symptoms I still struggle with are totally invisible. This often causes others to think that I use the TBI as an excuse. Unfortunately, they have no idea how hard I constantly work to defeat the brain injury. 

Do I get bothered when people tease me about something I can't control like my height? Absolutely not. But does it destroy me when people get upset or frustrated over something that is a direct result of the TBI? Without a doubt. It could be because they think that I'm intentionally being a pain, or it could be because of how much I still grieve the damage myself. It could be that I get more frustrated than anyone with the TBI, but at least "most" of the time I know that it's not me (not always though which is even more frustrating). It could be that I so desperately wish that I could control these things. It's not just a reflection on myself that kills me, it's that people associate me with wonderful things, like the church and my family, and I feel like I disrespect them when people view me in a negative way. Please, be patient with me and recognize that I'm never going to use the TBI as a mere excuse and that I am doing the absolute best I can in any and every given moment. Sometimes my best will be better than others, but we are all that way. Take a moment to think about how different life would be if we were less judgmental/critical and saw everyone as doing the best they can. 

Supposed Injustice Makes Sense with an Eternal Superimposition

 Supposed Injustice Makes Sense with an Eternal Superimposition.... what the crap do I mean by that? Well, why do bad things happen to good people? Why do good things happen to bad people? Why do some actions have good consequences while other good things perhaps have bad consequences? This is what I mean by the supposed injustice. However, I call it supposed based on the "eternal superimposition." Okay Shannon, what is an eternal superimposition? A superimposition is when something is laid on top of another to clearly display both images. Therefore, an eternal superimposition would be when your pain, sorrow and heartache in this world is still very visible on the other side, while also being blessed abundantly for those afflictions. 
This "injustice" is something I have struggled with ever since the accident. I was a great person, with great plans for the future and then my life went to hell in a handbasket. I have expressed different philosophies I have come up with over the course of the last 12 years. One such philosophy I expressed at my 2020 birthday devotional. This was the idea that something good or even great must be destroyed to become something better. I found scriptural evidence of this idea earlier this week. Jeremiah 1:10 reads "I have this day set thee…to root out, and to pull down, and to destroy, and to throw down (sound like the destruction? But then it follows saying…) to build, and to plant." Something better could not be created until everything was first destroyed. 
Furthermore, losing things that were so important to you at one time in your life feels like a weakness. Even getting profits of only this world is a weakness. However, God knows what He is doing. In Ether 12:27 -28 it says "I ^bgive unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my ^cgrace is sufficient for all men that ^dhumble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make ^eweak things become strong unto them. Behold… I will show unto them that ^afaith, hope and charity bringeth unto me—the fountain of all ^brighteousness.” The righteousness in humbling oneself to the Lord provides an eternal perspective in this life. The eternal perspective helps us to feel at peace and endure the hard things with an understanding heart. Furthermore, we receive the ultimate joy in the hereafter, as verse 37 continues “And because thou hast seen thy ^bweakness thou shalt be made strong, even unto the sitting down in the place which I have prepared in the mansions of my Father.”  Since our weakness, challenges, hardships make us more reliant on the Savior, and draw us closer to Him, perhaps this realization gives us a more positive understanding of how they can bless our lives, not destroy them. 
While we only see things from a finite, mortal point of view, things are unjust. However, with that "eternal superimposition" all things are made more infinite and abundantly joyful than we can even fathom. 

Agape

The love that I have for others is out of this world. I love easily, whole-heartedly, unconditionally and forever. In Greek there are 8 words for different types of love. My default love is agape. (I'll talk about all the different kinds of love on a podcast episode!!) Agape is Christlike love, charity, for all our brothers and sisters throughout the world. Agape is selfless and unconditional. As I interact with people, I gain other forms of love as well, most commonly philia. Philia is commonly referred to as "brotherly love," or the bond between two great friends. The love I have for people I grow close to is deep and penetrates the soul. Growing up, I thought that everyone loved the same way I do. It wasn't until after the accident that I learned how wrong I was. 

Because of my love, I forgive very easily and quickly. Because of this love, I still mourn for all of my "friends" who left me even after some were excruciatingly mean. Because of this love, I want everyone to know that they can always count on me. I hope for goodness for everyone - and it pains me more than anything when I can't even know how someone is doing. I cannot explain how much it would mean to me if anyone of the people I used to know would just send me a message or call me and give me a small life update. I don't even need to see you or become a part of your life again, I just have an immense amount of love and wishing for your wellbeing. (I really don't know how to make that make sense.) 

When I get blocked from yet another life, it feels like a rejection of love. Not only their love for me, but mine for them. Unfortunately, my love canNOT turn off. This is not merely painful, but it also damages healing within the body. Connection is vital to healing, which is exacerbated by a brain injury, which is also exacerbated by the deep agape, extrovert personality that I embody. So please, accept my pleas for forgiveness and connection once more. Please, reach out and just tell me how you are. I love you, all of you (even those I don't know), in a very unique, unconditional kind of way. 

12th Anniversary and Surgery #10

I apologize for not updating sooner. The anniversary of my accident is a significant day every year. It feels as though a wave of change, uncertainty, heartache, devastation and loss rushes through my body repeatedly on the 12th of May. This year was especially bad though because the intense nightmares, anxiety and other forms of PTSD did not stop for over a month - until I got surgery. 

While I rarely get sleep anyway, anytime I fell asleep, AT ALL, I would immediately enter into REM stage (the dreaming stage) of sleep and nightmares would thrash. Therefore, I never got to sleep for very long. I felt extremely irritable and was always frustrated with the people I love the most. 

But, on June 8th, I finally was able to go in for my 10th surgery. Honestly, I was so excited for this surgery. But less because of the actual procedure and more for the experience. From my previous surgeries, I had associated surgery with anesthesia, being cared for all the time by nurses in the hospital, having persistent intense pain killers, no expectations for when you'd "be better," etc. Unfortunately, this was not the case at all.

Surgery #10 was to go in and actually lift my eyebrows so that I could see. My eyebrows were so low that it was impeding my vision. Apparently, I had also exercised those eyebrows to the point where the technician said that my eyebrows were really strong. LoL 

The surgeon that we had talked to only about 6 weeks prior was incredible. I had talked to many different doctors about how troublesome my eyes were, but they were all dismissive. This is why a 10th surgery may seem out of the blue for those close to me. I've had this issue for years, but no one ever thought it was a real issue until we met this doctor who specializes in eye reconstructive surgeries of a few different types. He had expressed knowledge of the same issues/frustrations that I experience when we met with him the first time. He also said that taking any tissue from my eyelids would only make the problem worse. (Couldn't agree more!) So, when I learned of incisions made on my eyelids, I was devastated, thinking for a time that he forgot who I was and the surgery he was supposed to be preforming. However, I came to learn that when they went in to lift the brows, they learned that the levator aponuerosis - the tendon that lifts your eyelids was not attached. So, they decided to make a second incision to be able to attach it. 

 

Overall, I still can't say much about the surgery because I'm still very much healing. It is quite amazing to see my eyes though. And I look so awake!! Like day after surgery, I get up to pee, look in the mirror and I say to myself, "what? I am not that awake!!" Nightmares thank heavens went away, but they were replaced by agonizing pain that prevented me from being able to fall asleep. That was the case from probably 2 days after the surgery to about 6 or 7 days. I still struggle with all of the normal stuff, but at least I'm not having nightmares or post-traumatic triggers on an hourly basis. 

(p.s. I know this post is not written as well as most of my others, sorry!)