A Christmas Revelation

  I am alone and in Malaysia this holiday season due to a series of circumstances that are irrelevant to this article, but I want that to be understood as context while I relate this story.  Know that I am healthy, safe and trying to remain optimistic about future plans, but simply put, it sucks.  I did share a internet video chat with my parents and sister in the States and my wife who is currently in China, but I wanted to mark the holiday by doing different, so I decided go for a hike early Christmas morning, and using the power of the internet I found a large hill/small mountain named Broda Hill that I could visit.

Taking a taxi to the base of the park, I arrived just as the sun was beginning to stretch and promptly walked to a ticket entrance where I learned that some of the steeper trails had fallen into disrepair and not all of the scenic areas were open.  This meant that, according to the official statement by the workers behind the ticketing counter, I should not even try to reach the top of the mountain, the spot that contained the views that had been advertised.  I could still trek through the jungle and see whatever views were there, and the ticket takers promised that there would be spots for pictures, just not the panorama I had intended to see.  Having already paid the taxi for the commute, and with no other plans, I accepted the restrictions and continued with my planned hike.  My philosophy is generally to say ‘yes’ to any event and attempt to appreciate whatever occurs.  For the most part, this has resulted in good choices, but you never know, but I try to aim forward because I’ve already seen behind me.

And the hike was fine.  There were a few other people on the trail that took me uphill, but for the most part everything was suitably quiet.  It was pretty.  I was walking through the mildly cultivated jungle, marching along a steep the hill side, finding foliage framed views of Malaysian farmland lit by a morning tropical sun that was resting atop the mountains on the other side of the valley.  

        Having barricaded myself in an apartment for most of the last month with the aim of keeping safe from disease, I enjoyed the fresh air and the packed dirt paths, but was disappointed that I wouldn’t see the sites from the top of the hill.  Actually, let’s be fair, “disappointed” might be too strong a word, as the melancholy that came from the lack of a holiday mood brewed apathy more than anything else, so I wasn’t really disappointed, but I did have a strong sense of, “Eh, well that sucks.”

I walked until I couldn’t find a trial, and then turned around.  It had been maybe an hour and a half, but the sun was now fully in the sky and people were beginning to populate the path.  Finding a side trail that went uphill on the right, I decided to explore, and soon this turned into a climb up the mountain.  I was moving toward a peak that may be officially closed, as advised by the ticketing workers, but I observed several groups attempting to navigate a way up the steep rocks.

I thought, “Why not?” and began to climb.  Carefully setting each foot before any movement and relying on my hands for support, I was able to begin the ascent.  It was tricky, but a tinge of excitement began to percolate in my body, for this was something new and presented what could be a Christmas challenge.  The rocks grew less stable, the ascent  steeper, and when I was about a third of the way up I stopped to refresh myself with some water and decipher my next steps.  Small pebbles coated the larger rocks, making the stone slick as ice and near impossible for my road-running shoes to grip any surface,.  There seemed to be two potential routes up the hill, right or left.  I’m right handed, so I attempted the right path first — it looked steeper, and would require more work with my hands, but it also seemed to have fewer rocks and would create less danger of slipping.  The gaps between the rocks, however, were too large, and after about fifty meters, I turned around.  I might have been able to keep going, but decided to at least look at the path on the left before deciding what course to take.

I found the same ledge where I could rest and survey the situation.  As I recouped with more water, I watched as a group of young men, perhaps 15 years younger than I, came from the top of the mountain and navigated their way down the steep slope.  I was trying to see the path they took and consider if I might follow it in reverse, when I heard the slick sound of rock on rock and watched as one of the hikers lost the grip with his shoe and began to skid down the mountain with an avalanche of pebbles skirting after him.  Now, he did not seem shocked by his slip — may have even planned it — and stayed calm as he surfed past me, going down the mountain for another 10 to 15 meters for a total ride of about 40 meters.  His cool and calm was impressive, but when his feet found a solid grip again, it felt like everyone watching nearby breathed a collective sigh of relief and his wide eyed friends let out a nervous and relieved gaggle of laughter and then returned to focusing on how to make their own, more cautious decent.

There was never any serious danger.  Everyone was fine and the “great stone slide” will likely be forgotten by the youthful hikers, but I stayed on my safe perch and began to run some numbers.

First, I would probably be fine going up the steep hill.  Definitely at least a 50% chance that nothing went wrong — no, probably better than that...at least 60%, maybe even a 70% likelihood that I could climb the steep, mountain-ish hill and nothing of note would occur.  Assuming that is what would happen, I mount the summit and witness a beautiful panorama from the peak.  No doubt, that would be...nice.  I had seen internet previews and didn’t expect a mind-blowing or life rejuvenating experience, but it would fun.  There would be a good view, I would pause, sip water, ponder the majestic quality of nature while I caught my breath, look around and realize I had no one to share the moment with, and begin to climb down.  It would be, eh... nice.  And I am in relatively good shape, so I would probably be if fine — I’ll revise my numbers and give it a 75-80% chance that I’m fine.

But then I thought about the alternative.  According to my presumptuous calculations, there was a 20-25% chance something might happen.  This something might not be THAT bad, but...I mean probably not, but who knows?  It could very well be that in some possible future there was a chance that I would also surf down the rock, but instead of using shoes with improper tread, I would use my face — not likely, but not impossible.  And there was also a chance that I might drop my cellphone down the side, loose my water, bust my jeans...  Or I could ignore this risk and prove myself...to myself...in a solipsistic ego stroke...and I would see a view would be...eh...probably nice.

I’ve had the privilege of seeing countless “nice views” in my life.  Sometimes these views come from a long hike in through a forest and other times from a short stroll around town, but regardless I have seen thousands of “nice views”, and probably hundreds of truly spectacular landscapes.  What’s more, I hope and expect to see as many or more such sites in the future, as long as I don’t prematurely end my ability to take in such experiences by surfing down a mountain side and not sticking the landing — this is especially true when I’m stuck in a country without insurance.  The climb would possibly lead to one more new, “nice view” that I could add to the stack of thousands, or I skip it and be assured safety.  I made a choice, and did not to climb.  I would have probably likely been fine, but did I need to take the risk?  The future awaits.

I include this story in my blog about survival because it is an example of recognizing limits.  As survivor, I try not to let anything stand in my way — I want to push my abilities to their fullest, and no one can say that brain injury has limited my life experiences.  More importantly, I push myself because I don’t want to consider the idea that my injury has hindered any of my choices.  I want to know that I am fully living life.  This is important, and I encourage all survivors create, face, and attempt challenges — push yourself to do more than you did yesterday, try what hasn’t been done, see new things, but realize some tasks are just too dangerous or dumb to do, and know that not doing everything does not mean you have failed, it means you have thought about it.  That’s how I looked at my decision not to climb the mountain — I didn’t have a safety network, I didn’t have the gear, I didn’t have the experience, and I might have probably been fine, but I can forgo one nice experience to ensure experiences in the future when I am better prepared.

This revelation was my self-given Christmas gift.  I’m getting older — nearing 40 — and while my body might not be able to bounce off rocks with the elasticity of youth, I will accept the wisdom that I’m finding as a supplement that previously imagined invincibility.

(The photos added are from that hike.  The first is from a safe spot on the trail, the second is from my perch part way up the climb — it doesn’t really give a full perspective of the difficulty, but you can see the slick pebbles on the rocks.)

Predictions of Rage

  Rage is an issue for me.  It has been for all my life, but especially since my brain injury.  It’s taken a lot of work, but now I am at least conscious of the dangers rage can create, and I am actively working on finding ways calm any impulses, yet there have been times when it seems that I foresee when a rage will consume me — as if I can predict the future.  It’s a vision in my head that dictates what will occur to ignite my temper.  I do not have this sort of vision often, anymore, but when such a vision does find me it will almost inevitably come true.

Since I’ve recognized that this premonition occurs, absurd questions have popped up.  Am I psychic?  Can I predict the future?  Is there any way to use this talent to make some money?

Recently, a rage struck me.  It was not in anyway dangerous — no one was harmed, no relationships were damaged, but I did used crude, immature language toward another person because the company that person worked for was attempting to cheat me out of several hundred US dollars — I ordered a product that wasn’t delivered and the company acknowledged that the product wasn’t delivered, but they were not refunding my payment.  There was legitimate reason to be angry.  As the situation began to play out I had a vision, and I knew exactly what I would say to this person if they didn’t adhere to the guarantees that had been promised.  I envisioned exactly how the rage would strike and what venom would spew from my tongue.  This was repeated many times on the movie screen of my mind, and at times it would even inspire me to vocalize my anger as I expressed myself to the walls of my apartment with passionate tones, as if I was shouting at the villain while watching a TV program.  And it was very much like criticizing the TV because my vocalizations had no effect — there was nothing I could do to stop it — as it was a vision of what would occur.

So when the worker contacted me to give me bad information, as predicted, and reported the company’s hesitancy in refunding the payment I made, and my vision came true.  The words that had been screened in my mind dozens of times were recited with exactly the same vehemence I had foreseen.  My vision came to pass and I verbally raged at this person.  The immature spite that spewed out didn’t change anything, for better or worse, but it did stain my name.

I am ashamed and embarrassed when a rage strikes.  As I said, I am working to calm these impulses, so when this happened I asked, why?  How could I predict this?  If I had foreseen such an action, why couldn’t I stop it?

In the hope of calming my anger and deciphering answers to my questions, I went for a run.  It was a terrible run, for anger had already drained my body of energy, but as my feet pounded the pavement, I pondered through possible reasons for my loss of control.  Again and again my feet hit the road and again and again potential reasons scrolled through my mind.

As I said, the run was not good, but I did run, and I was able to do some sort of run because I had done it before.  Again and again.  It is a habit of mine.

Again and again.  The reasons for my rage played in my mind.  It was a habit.

Realization!

My “vision” had been playing continuously in my head.  Again and again.  I hadn’t predicted my rage, I had rehearsed it.  My mind had used what was known to anticipate what would likely happen, and then concocted a response based on my history — I had a history of rage, so it assumed I would rage.  With this decision made, the scene that might happen was played with obsessive repetition and ingrained itself in my memory.  Therefore, when the reality revealed itself to be close to what had been predicted — the introduction to the scene — I knew exactly how to act in order to make the “vision” come true.  I said my lines, flailed my arms, and appeared as an ass.

I don’t like that, and my recognition of this tendency allows me to make a choice.  When my mind predicts a shameful response to some situation, I must be aware, and instead of accepting the scene as a prediction, I can decide what alternatives might occur.  How can the scene play out in a manner that doesn’t cause disgrace?  This is not to suggest that I ignore my anger, but instead of allowing it to fester and evolve into a grotesque rage, I can create a scenario that expresses my discontent in a reasonable manner.  By allowing this passive response to play on repeat in my head, I can rehearse what will happen, and through rehearsal habituate this sort of response.

I can make the choice to change my “visions”.  Sure, they will be less dramatic, but this will allow me to live a more joyous, reasonable future, one without moments of embarrassing and damaging rage.

I share this experience because I have heard other people comment on how a situation, “played out exactly as terribly as expected.”  If this sort of premonition ever happens to you, I challenge you to face that prediction and try to expect something else.  Rehearse a different set of actions in your head and see if you can choose a healthier, happier way to live.

My Journey to Appreciation

  The last entry shared the difference between accepting and appreciating one’s self-identity.  As a survivor of 21 years, I have reached the point of appreciation of my identity after brain injury, but it was a long journey.  This article will share a summary of my journey to appreciation in the hope that it can provide inspiration.

When the injury happened, I was a high school senior (12th grader) and was already at a transition point in my life.  Filled with youthfully ambitious pretension, the plan was to launch out of the small town I felt stuck in and shine my talent upon the world, and when brain injury occurred it delayed my launch date, but I refused to give up the momentum, figuring that “a bump on the head” wouldn’t hold me back.  It was temporary.  There was a plan prior to the accident and no reason why it couldn’t continue.  I was Lethan — the actor — and would move on to at least attempt, and hopefully do, great theatrical things.

But did I still want to be an actor?  Didn’t matter, and I didn’t even explore that question.  Why should I?  I had diligently worked at this craft for half of my long eighteen years — that’s almost a decade of my life (please do read the sarcasm)!  It was what I was made to do, my plan, nay, it was my destiny!  I was too strong to let this setback damage my core drives, and theater would always be my thing!

I was in denial.

It’s important to recognize that this wasn’t a denial that the brain injury had happened, but I refused to acknowledge that it was a life changing event.  I insisted on viewing it as a blip, a skip, a bump in life, and I convinced myself that everything would be back to normal once I healed enough.  It just might take a little bit of time.  I accepted that the injury occurred, but refused to recognize that it had permanent effects.  

And this view was encouraged by other people.  Friends, teachers, acquaintances spouting words of encouragement — “Don’t worry, you’ve got this,” — “Strong person like you won’t let this keep you down,” — “You’ll be back to your old self in no time!”  I don’t fault anyone for saying these words, as they are what one says to offer support and a positive outlook.  More than that, most believed that the words were true, and that was kind, but gave me false expectations.  I was convinced that I wouldn’t experience the effects of the accident for all my life, that I would emerge from recovery the same as before.

But this is not how brain injury works.  A survivor will almost certainly experience lifelong affects of the injury.  Brain injury causes changes.  I choose these words carefully, and notice that I do not say, “The survivor was changed by the injury.”  The survivor is still the same person, but that person has, and will, continue to experience changes.  My performance piece Who Am I, Again? begins and ends with the statement, “I am Lethan.” I use this phrase because it insists on a permanence of self-identity, but that said, a stable self-identity does not mean an unchanging personality.  The truth is that every person constantly goes through changes in his or her life — discovering preferences, learning skills, forming relationships — all these and more indicate changes, but it is important that the core identity of a person is recognized as constant.  Brain injury causes changes, but it does not change who that person is — I am I.

I emphasize this because learning to adapt to the changes caused by brain injury can create questions about one’s self-identity.  It can feel like qualities that are viewed as a necessary part of a person are either no longer present or have fundamentally changed.  A survivor may even be conscious of these changes, but not want to acknowledge them because the previous quality is a part of how that person has defined him or herself.  This can cause the survivor to cling to former qualities that may have changed as after the injury, and refusing to acknowledge changes may create conflict or stress.

This is confusing, so for clarity, I’m going to explain it again, but in another way.  

We all change over the course of life, and most times this change can be accepted because it occurs in a gradual manner.  Granted, there may be a few times in every life when, in an instant, there is a “big change” that occurs, but most times we can account for the events that led to this “big moment”.  Yet when brain injury occurs, big changes will become apparent throughout the rehabilitation process, but they don’t have the series of surrounding events that add context for these changes.  Sure, after brain injury the reason could be stated as, “Well, you had brain injury,” but often the event of the injury isn’t remembered by the survivor, and its hard for an unremembered event to provide sufficient rational for an unbidden change.  What’s more, if a survivor is told, “Everything is going to be fine and just like before,” as described above in my experience, unanticipated changes can cause greater confusion, angst, and frustration.  This can lead a survivor to attempt to deny that the injury affected his or her life — “Sure, I had brain injury, but I’m fine now.  It was just a bump on the head,” — and by not admitting that these changes happened, a survivor may hang onto habits or tendencies that they remember as a defining feature, even if holding onto such a habit is no longer a positive experience.

As explained above, a habit I can clearly cite in my experience that caused me to deny my changes was my love of theater.  Sure, I still loved theater after the accident, but didn’t have the same passion, had lost some of the onstage charisma, and the drive to explore the art was completely missing— acting had become a thing that sometimes I did, even though I never felt good about my work.  Yet I refused to acknowledge that the need to perform as an actor was no longer a part of who I am.

This did eventually change, but I can’t pick out a specific moment when I decided that I no longer was an actor, as my move from denial and toward acceptance of the new situation was gradual, a change that could be accepted over time.  If pressed to provide my rational, I think it grew from not feeling comfortable among my peers in theater, finding a spectacular team of professors at my university that supported me in alternate subjects, and from just trying new things — but I was eventually able to recognize that theater, well... it just wasn’t my thing anymore.  My accident had messed up my plans and now I need to do something else.

This was acceptance.

I accepted that my accident had caused changes in both my passions and talents, and these changes hindered my intent to be a stage actor.  Now it was time to find something new, and there were many paths to explore — music composition, anthropology, philosophy, sociology, political science, law... Each subjects touched on something I enjoyed, but nothing gripped me the same way theater had — I never felt the same completeness, yet had to accept that the accident had ruined, or at least had changed my relationship with the theater.  After all, I was alive, and this was one of the conditions I had to accept in exchange for this life.

Eventually I found Storytelling, and it became a new passion that was a great joy, but it still felt like a substitute.  Theater was no longer an option, and I had to accept that now storytelling is what I do.  It was a second choice, and one that had to be accepted.

When this acceptance morphed into appreciation is similarly difficult to pinpoint.  In Scene 32 of Who Am I, Again, the character of Larry states his realization that his accident, “...kinda made me who I am today, / and I’m okay with that.”  For dramatic effect, it would be fun to say that it was this interview that inspired my appreciation, but in truth it was several years after composing the piece when the transition to appreciation fully occurred in my being.  What I do know is that the source of this change was recognizing how I could use my experience to help other people.  That the injury didn’t need to be something I attempted to ignore while it hampered daily life, but by embracing the experience I could better learn from what had happened and use it as a base from which to build a new life.  I came to recognize that the knowledge gained from the injury could help other people who are new to the journey of survival, and by helping others, I am still finding ways to help myself.

Being a survivor is a part of my identity, and I don’t need to hide that.  It does not define me, and I will not let it limit me, but I will appreciate the knowledge it has granted me.  This does not mean appreciating the injury, but recognizing what the experience has granted — a rare understanding of life that can be used to can help fellow survivors navigate the murk of recovery.  By helping others, I can find joy and peace with who I am.

I appreciate who I am and what I am able to share.

Those are my thoughts, and I hope they help you.  If you enjoyed, please share this posting and/or leave a comment.

Acceptance vs. Appreciation

  A lot has been written and spoken about the “acceptance of the reality after brain injury.”  This is acceptance of what has occurred and accepting the person you, as a survivor, have become.  It’s said that one of the goals of rehabilitation should be acceptance of who you are.

        I disagree.  Acceptance should not be a goal but a stop in the road that you visit while traversing the more complete path of recovery.  A person must be comfortable accepting him or herself after TBI, granted, but setting it as a goal doesn’t go far enough.  Saying “all you have to do is accept yourself” is like setting yourself the goal of running a marathon, but then dropping out after five kilometers with the thought, “Well, at least I tried.  I guess I just have to admit I’m just not able to do the whole thing.”  For the marathon of recovery, the goal needs to be that a survivor appreciates the person he or she has become, for by appreciating rather than merely accepting, it gives that survivor the power of choice in the journey that the future will take.

Acceptance is passive.  It is recognizing that the world is happening and believing that there is nothing more that can be done.  Acceptance of a situation is taking one’s hands off the wheel of life, leaning back and saying, “Hey, not my fault — let life drive itself — I’ll just let it do its thing.”  Acceptance might not imply actively a destructive action or encouraging negative thoughts, but it does imply inaction, and if you’re not doing any actions you can’t go anywhere.

 

So be active.  Don’t merely accept what has happened, but appreciate what the injury has allowed you to become.  Note, this does NOT mean appreciating the trauma.  The event that happened is horrific and has caused damage that will resonate in you and your world for all your life.  Tragedy should not be celebrated, but it can teach, and a survivor can learn.  Do the work to find the lessons in a tragedy, and you can discover how to grow.  It is the growth that comes from this learning that a survivor can appreciate.

Appreciating is active, making choices to recognize how to learn and how to grow. Accepting is static.  Appreciating is exciting — it’s being on a quest to discover unexpected gems of understanding buried beneath the mounds of muck created by hardship.  Accepting is boring, and lets the world pass with minimal engagement.  Appreciating is difficult, sifting through the pain and loss in an attempt to find the seeds of growth.  Accepting is also difficult, but can give the appearance of seeming easier, and it almost never offers rewards.

Appreciating is joyful.  Acceptance is blasé.

I contrast these choices here because too often I read and hear discussions about “Accepting who I am after brain injury,” and I find this attitude defeatist, depressing and simply unproductive.  Furthermore, “accepting who I am...” suggests that you are a different person, which is just false.  Brain injury forces adaptations and changes in some ways of living, but the identity of the person is constant — just now he or she is informed by the experience of being a survivor and navigating recovery.  A survivor has not changed, but can grow.

In the next entry I’m going to share some of my experience making the choice to appreciate my self rather than just accept what happened in my own brain injury experience, so check back soon.