Lost in My Mind: Recovering From Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) (Reflections of America) by Kelly Bouldin Darmofal

Author:Kelly Bouldin Darmofal [Darmofal, Kelly Bouldin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Modern History Press
Published: 2014-11-03T05:00:00+00:00

8 Returning to a New Place

“If you are going through hell, keep going.”

– Winston S. Churchill

My sophomore year of high school was my first full-time year post-TBI, and I try hard to recall it, but only images appear. I’d try to get dressed, only to have my mother argue about matching my shoes and socks. More arguing about my hiking boots looking strange, but they were the only footwear that supported my weak ankles. And riding to school, finally, with other teenagers.

Then getting to school, wondering if I was going to the right class each period. Falling down... hiding anywhere I could when I felt panicky. Trying to take a few notes with my left hand (which got easier with time). I simply couldn’t concentrate on writing and listening to teachers simultaneously. I focused on drawing each letter of a word, rather than hearing discussions in class. Then I couldn’t recall class lectures.

I did enjoy Spanish, which was somehow easy, remembered from Junior High classes. I enjoyed chorus where everyone was nice, but my favorite class was Honors English. Poetry was like music for me—short, easy, beautiful. But much of school was a nightmare: trying to get teachers to give me enough time to finish, to let me answer them before they interrupted me, getting enough nerve to raise my hand, and then give a wrong answer when the right one was still in my head. I know I hid in the bathroom often to calm down. Hiding in the bathroom relaxed me and helped me dodge people with walkie-talkies that tracked my movements through the high school. Clearly, liability issues plagued the administration, but I hated knowing staff members followed my every movement, every day, every minute.

Once I met a pregnant girl while escaping to the bathroom, a pretty brunette girl washing her hands. She obviously knew about me because she said, “Kelly, you and I are so much alike.... We are damaged goods. Sit with me at lunch if you need a friend.” She made me feel somewhat better about my life. The father of her baby was now dating one of the freshmen, once my close buddy, who had stopped visiting me when I wasn’t perfect and fun anymore. Well, as damaged goods, we were better off on our own.

Every morning I woke up worried about making a fool of myself at school. Every night I mentally reviewed the previous day, examining things I might have done wrong or assignments I forgot to do. Sleep was difficult.

And I tried to date in my sophomore year, but the whole thing was simply too difficult. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and didn’t want to kiss anyone. The idea of a tongue in my mouth made me want to vomit, and I just couldn’t trust a strange guy with my huge problems. I had more important things to do, like making A’s on tests and papers. An “A” meant more to me than an extended curfew. “A’s” meant I was not diminished.

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