A TBI Story, The Long Winter of Depression (Chapter 2, Part 1)

There are times when long, cold winters set in. Days when isolation and desolation are bedmates who never leave. These are not moments to be looked down upon or shamed, but when we must look to the heavens for hope. Sometimes we need a spark of sun to start the thaw. For it is then when those impassable mountains of snow and ice begin their melt the impassable may just be surmountable!

Nov 28, 2014

It’s been about a month since the accident. It’s been two weeks since I was ordered to stay home, do nothing, go nowhere. No reading, no television, no computer time. No living.

“You’re lucky we aren’t pulling your license,” someone had said.

Luck? You call this luck?

As a single mother of a teen daughter and living rural, I think the doctors took pity on me. I remember promising to only drive during the day and only when well rested. So here I sit. Staring out the window at nothing. Again. Today is a good day. I’m out of bed. I’ve made it to the futon in another room. It’s grey today. It hurts to open my eyes in daylight. With cloud cover I can tolerate it. This headache is unbearable. Acetaminophen doesn’t help, nor do stronger prescription painkillers. Nothing does. My black lab nuzzles my arm.

He must need out.

I get up and open the door as Addy, my daughter is coming home from school.

“Mom, you’re up!?” she sounds excited and surprised.

I stare blankly.

“What can we have for dinner? I’ll cook,” she offers opening the fridge then frowning, “We need to get food in.”

Still I stare.

“My head,” I think I say raising my hand.

“What about your head?” asks Addy softly.

It’s like there is a band tightening around my head. The pressure on either side is pulsing so bad I cannot think.

I say nothing. I cannot find the words.

Addy brings me water and a pill, “Get some rest.”

I don’t know whether Addy cooked or if I ate, or if she ate.

December 3, 2014, 3 AM

Blinding lights and the crunch of metal on metal jar me. Burning rancid smoke fills the air. I cannot breathe. I can’t get out!

HELP!

I bolt upright sweating. Blackness surrounds me. I see the red glow of the clock, 3:03 AM.

A nightmare. Another one. The accident.

My breathing is ragged. My dog jumps up and lays on top of me nuzzling my neck. Tears are streaming now and if my head didn’t hurt so much I know I’d be ugly, snotty crying.

God help me! Please!

I will for sleep to pull me under. It doesn’t for a long time.

December 4, 2014

FUCK! JUST FUCK!

I roll over and try to sleep. I cannot do life today.

December 6, 2014

I’m up. Well out of bed. I’m on the futon staring out the window. I think Addy is at school. I don’t remember her leaving.

December 8, 2014

The dull drone of the winter storm is relentless. Winds howl. Ice particles pelt against the window. The world outside is white and grey. It matches how I feel. I sit in silence, trapped. Time stands still. I can’t go anywhere. It’s too icy to walk. I’m told to rest anyhow. I can’t visit anyone.

Who would I visit like this? I can’t even talk on the phone without losing words.

There is a sharp ringing in both ears. Everything is a struggle. Everything exists in a thick fog.

I tried shopping yesterday. I had vegetables, bread and I think lunch meat when the dizziness, double vision and nausea hit. Flickering lights and the echoing sounds were overwhelming. I thought I was going to be sick and I hurried to the front and paid. The food might still be in the truck. I don’t remember. I retched on the driveway when I got home and crawled to bed. Literally crawled. Across the floor. I couldn’t sleep after with my head spinning. It hasn’t stopped.

Addy comes home. I tell her to check the truck for food.

“I got that yesterday Mom,” she answers.

Right.

December 15, 9 AM

I’m up AND showered. Today I’m going to try to get Christmas presents. I don’t know how long I’ll be off work so I have to watch money. I had to cancel our vacation we are supposed to be on right now.

“You are not getting on a plane,” Brian my NP had stated flatly last week, “Did you get insurance? I’ll write you a note.”

I don’t have the money back yet, but I have to do something for Addy. I feel so guilty. The family will expect gifts too. After the last outing I’m afraid to go in a store. I literally walked out and left a cart of groceries in the middle of an aisle. I carefully drive the backroads into town, tensing at every intersection. So far so good. It’s an overcast day and traffic is light.

Thank you to the guy upstairs!

Target has just launched in Canada and there is one about a 15-minute drive away. I pull in and park. I already have sunglasses and a ballcap on. I insert earplugs and take a deep breath walking into the store. I’m shaking.

I can do this!

It’s bright, but I’m okay. I’ve learned I really struggle with glowing yellow with black writing under bright lights of other stores. Nice wide aisles and woefully empty shelves. Target really botched their launch with low supplies but it works for me! I take my time and pick up a few stocking stuffers, mitts, hat and scarf. Next are pajamas. I get a few small things for my nephews and niece too. I pay for my purchases, and make it home.

I actually did it!

A tear falls down my cheek and I brush it away. I’m exhausted. I climb into bed. I don’t hear Addy come home.

December 18, 2014

It’s snowing and grey out. I pull the covers over my head.

December 24, 2014

Christmas eve has always been ‘our’ evening, Addy and I. Ever since she was little we spent it wearing our new Christmas pajamas and playing with her one gift she was allowed to open early. Addy opens her new pajamas and I see her eyes mist over.

“Thanks Mom,” is all she says.

We put on an old movie we’ve watched a thousand times on low volume with the closed captioning on. I can tolerate shows I’ve seen before with the volume down. Mostly because I can close my eyes and follow the story. I fight the pull of sleep.

It’s dark when I wake on the sofa. Addy must have gone to bed.

Dammit!

So much for our evening. I get the stockings ready. They are pretty empty this year. I start crying. My dog comes over to cuddle. This time I ugly cry. I finally drag myself away. I have a card and money to get together for Addy. She’s going to need drivers’ education if I go on like this much longer. The vice grip band around my head has tightened. I take medication and go to bed.

December 25, 2014

It doesn’t feel like Christmas. I’m awake early. Sleep is hard to come by these days. I hear Addy stirring in her room and I put the kettle on. I didn’t make our traditional Christmas breakfast but I have quiche and croissants from the store. I put them in the oven.

We have a low-key morning. Addy is getting used to the quiet and limited television. I guess to limited ‘Mom’ too.

“This is nice,” Addy says, “Merry Christmas Mom.”

“Pack a bag,” I say, “We’ll go to Sheri’s after the family. We may stay the night.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“I may not be able to drive home from your Aunt’s.” I answer, “Sheri is around the corner from there.”

At my sisters, my worst fears are realized. I cannot tolerate the screeches of children, the loud conversations and the blaring television. The judgmental stares are just as bad. I try to find a quiet place. There is none. I hear bits of conversation.

“She looks fine,” someone snipes.

“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she….” a second voice trails off.

“What’s wrong with her?” a third person asks.

“Let’s go mom,” Addy says.

I try to argue. I want her to have fun. I can’t find words. I can barely speak. I put my hand to my head.

Addy looks at me oddly, “Mom, now.”

We apologize and leave. In the truck I lay my head on the steering wheel. Addy calls Sheri.

December 27, 2014

We got home yesterday. I slept a lot. I’m still in bed.

After resting and taking painkillers, I had joined Sheri’s family and Addy for a snacks in front of the television. Sheri had seen me to bed and took me in a big hug.

“I’ve been there, remember?” she’d said, “You’re not alone.”

I had forgotten! Sheri had suffered a concussion two years previously. I get up to use the washroom and stumble back to bed. Blessed darkness.

December 28, 2014, 3 AM

I’m behind the wheel. The light has gone green and I’m crossing the intersection. Lights in the corner of my eye. Blinding lights and the crunch of metal jolt me.

What the hell!

I sit up. It’s dark and my heart is racing. The clock glows 3:17 AM. This again. I rock back and forth willing my heart to slow and breathing to steady.

December 28, 2014

Another storm. The snow is relentless. It’s nice knowing I’m not the only one trapped at home.

January 1, 2015

Happy Fucking New Year.

I wish I could feel something. I am empty. I feel nothing. A shell of my former self. Outside looks like a wasteland with the winds and snow. The lake has frozen over. We didn’t do anything New Year’s Eve. I didn’t want to. This isn’t fair to Addy.

January 4, 2015

“Mom, we really need food,” says Addy, “If you give me your debit card, I’ll ask a neighbor to drive me.”

“In my purse,” I answer not rousing.

I’m not awake, I’m not asleep. I’m not anything.

January 5, 2015

A shantytown of rack-shambled ice-huts have appeared on the frozen pond overnight. There are brightly painted wood boxes, rusted tin sheds, even an outhouse-turned ice hut. Red, blue, green. The first colors I’ve seen in weeks. They seem to move across the ice, following the fish. More likely they are just people coming and going with pop-up huts. There are ice skaters too. I hate them all.

Fucking happy people.

I go back to bed.

January 8, 2015

I’ve made it to the futon today! Another medical checkup I’m told to still do nothing. I’m waiting on a neurologist, an MRI, and who knows what else. All I do is wait. A large bird catches my eye. A really large bird.

Oh my gawd! It’s a bald eagle!

I get up to look more closely. He is magestic. My dog comes over and nudges my arm.

“Okay bud, let’s go for a walk. It’s time to do something.”

The Takeaway

“Every positive change in your life begins with a clear, unequivocal decision that you are going to either do something or stop doing something." – Brian Tracy

For the Non-TBI Reader

Depression is very real for the TBI recoveree. It is often paired with extreme anxiety, increasing degrees of isolation and desolation.

The stigma associated with these conditions combined with the frustration of not being able to manage daily life is soul crushing. The TBI survivor eventually is forced to realize a piece of them has died and they need to start from ground zero. The best support you can offer is to be there. Check in often, help access needed medical help and basic necessities.

Additional posts and stories for more information

A TBI Story, Green Doesn't Always Mean Go

Identifying and Coping with TBI, The Early Days

TBI Depression and PTSD

TBI Healing Modalities and Treatments