Confessions of a Concussed Cyclist: 8 years

August 19, 2022

8 years. Two thousand nine hundred twenty days.

At times it feels like just yesterday.  Other times it feels like I’ve been living in this form of hell for decades. 

I feel so many emotions leading up to this day, ranging from anger and frustration to complete sadness. Come August 20th, it is like a new start, like a January 1st, and I begin the next year of fighting; intense emotions behind me (for now).

Last month, I told my therapist that I refuse to ride my bike on this day.  She asked if I ever considered going out for a ride, to celebrate that I still can.  I replied with a firm “no!” When she asked why not, I told her “because lightning can strike twice!” She nodded then dropped the question.  I typically prefer to be alone on this day, not riding my bike but doing something for me: going to the ocean, kayaking, hiking, filling my belly with sushi, or sometimes just staying inside crying, processing it all. 

Over the years I’ve heard other TBI survivors say how thankful they are for their brain injury; that the experience has made them a better person.  I’m not one of those people and quite honestly I don’t know that I’ll ever find the positive to this.  A few weeks ago while in therapy, I voiced something out loud for the first time.  Something I’ve thought, something I’ve written, but not something that has ever left my lips.  I loudly and angrily told my therapist “I hate my f***ing life!”  I immediately let her know that I have joy in my life, I have love in my life, but overall, I hate it.  She simply replied to me “scream it from the rooftops and remove the weight of carrying that thought around!”  I did feel lighter that day, being able to express it. 

I could tell you how tired I am, how everything I do requires more energy. I could list all my symptoms and complications that I live with on a daily basis: post-concussion migraine, cognitive issues, light and noise sensitivity.  I could tell you how easily I become overwhelmed and overstimulated.  I could tell you about my body entering menopause at the age of 32 after getting hit and all the complications that brings.  I could tell you about issues with my adrenal glands from the trauma and issues with my pituitary gland from the impact.  I could tell you about the PTSD I live with daily.  I could tell you how good I am at faking that I’m ok.  I could tell you how much rest it requires for me to fake that I’m ok.  I could go on and on.  But instead, I’ll just try to get through this day. 

8 years. Two thousand nine hundred twenty days.