What is healing
If not knowing
What is up to us
And trusting us
To know
Part of getting whacked in the head (see previous post, “Healing a vurp-worthy word” for context) has meant that I can become - without much warning - emotionally disoriented.
The autonomic processes and cognition that were once smooth are now jolty and jangly; this creates confusion. It’s kind of like missing a step. You know that feeling, right?
You’re just walking along, doing more than just walking along because you’re a human capable of many things at once, when suddenly… oops! You miss a step. You stumble; your stomach lurches, and you feel all weird and “wait, what?”-ish. Hopefully you quickly recover, but maybe you reinjure that wobbly ankle of yours, dagnabit.
My brain hit has been like that in many ways (but way worse, let’s face it.) Things that should - and used to - be automatic aren’t anymore. My noggin will be busy at work and suddenly it misses a proverbial step and I feel all “wait, what?”-ish. This sets off a chain reaction of disorientation, discomfort, and… dang it… mistrust.
Now, I can’t do jacksquat about the cognitive step-missing. I can’t even do diddly about the disorientation. But I’m getting well enough such that the subsequent mistrust can become a choice. So I’m working on locating and mashing the pause button as soon as I feel the disorientation of the “missed step.”
In other words, finding and feeling trust is the only part of healing I can consciously do. Arguably it’s the most important.
So I’m finding the trust. But I needed a reminder to find the trust, because part of my brain injury has been forgetting things. (It’s super fuuuuuun!)
So with some help, I made the above signpost.
It used to hang in the inside of our medicine cabinet, so I’d see it twice daily while brushing my teeth. And bless my heart, for many months it was a surprise every time I saw it. Aw, I’d think. That’s cute. And shit! That’s smart!
The signpost reminds me that I have actual options. They may not be the options I crave (i.e. no more jangly cognition! No more proverbial skipped steps!) but they are options nonetheless. Furthermore, the signpost prompts the recollection that I trust my husband and myself. This is critical information for me to tell me about. When the mistrust peers around corners and blows its poison darts through pea shooters, I’m in trouble. But when I see a note to self in my own recognizable hand, it legit gives me pause. Hmm, I think. Maybe everything is both weird as hell and fine?
After its tenure in my medicine cabinet, the paper made its way into my apron pocket, which is a special place for treasured items and/or trash. The apron is the holding place called “Mama’s Pockets” and is fodder for poetry. As evidenced by the above poem.
These days the wrinkled signpost is taped onto the bottom of my computer monitor. I’m looking at it right now.
And you know what?
It’s cute, y’all. And shit. It’s smart.