Traumatic brain injuries are, well, traumatic

When I fell for an unknown reason and got a concussion last year, I was aware of only a handful of symptoms associated with brain injuries. I experienced terrible headaches, sensitivity to light and motion (it felt like a bowling ball was sloshing around my head), balance and coordination issues.

I soon learned how disruptive those symptoms could be—that balance and coordination issues could translate to difficulty styling my hair and applying makeup (i.e., looking presentable at work) or moving food from my plate to mouth without it shaking off the fork.

And I had other symptoms of post-concussion syndrome that I didn’t know were possible. Below are some of the most challenging ones I dealt with.

Trouble with speech

I mentioned in my last post that I lost the ability to speak right after my fall. Verbal communication continued to be an issue for me throughout my recovery. I’d know in my head what I wanted to articulate, but I couldn’t get my brain to summon the right words or figure out how to string them together into a coherent sentence. Then there was the issue of getting my mouth to cooperate and correctly pronounce the words.

I also slowly came to realize that I was having trouble understanding what other people were saying to me. I’d hear their words, but my brain couldn’t process the meaning. Other times I thought the conversation was going just fine, then the other person would tell me directly or kindly restate what she had said in a way that revealed my lack of understanding.

Not only was this frustrating, it shook my confidence. Communication is a fundamental way we participate in society. I was worried that I sounded dumb when I struggled with comprehension or word recall or mixed up the order of my words. For months, I didn’t feel comfortable talking to anyone except my closest family and friends.

Emotional instability and crippling anxiety

Though I had minimal awareness of this at the time, looking back I had terrible mood swings, getting angry or irritable at the drop of a hat. I’d feel fine one moment and be sobbing the next. I can’t count the number of times I burst into tears at work or the grocery store—and for no discernible reason.

Not only did I lose the ability to regulate my own emotions, the concussion gave me uncontrollable anxiety.

I have even more compassion now for people who suffer from anxiety. Before my concussion, I thought I had experienced anxiety, but it was manageable—something I could reason through. What I experienced after the concussion was on a completely different level.

The anxiety was crippling. It felt like a gigantic boulder weighing down on my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

I’m usually a positive, optimistic person, but I couldn’t stop thinking of worst-case scenarios. My brain was stuck on an endless loop of irrational thoughts, which would only cause my anxiety to escalate. It’d get stuck on a particular issue, and I didn’t have the cognitive ability to resolve it. If someone was patient enough to talk me through it (my sister, a true saint, spent hours doing this) and we came to a resolution, my brain couldn’t absorb it. It would automatically reset to my initial concern, like the conversation had never taken place, and we’d have to start the whole process over again.

I spent a lot of time exhausted and resting on the couch with my pups last year after getting a concussion.

Bone-deep fatigue

Pre-concussion, I always thought pushing myself was a good thing. If I encountered a difficult situation, I’d put my head down and work even harder. While that mindset served me well professionally and in other contexts, it turned out to be counterproductive to healing from a brain injury.

If I pushed myself too hard, my body would literally shut down and I’d be completely unable to operate (i.e., have trouble talking, comprehending simple sentences, reading words). Any sort of mental, emotional, physical, or social stimulation would trigger bone-deep fatigue. I’d have to nap or rest immediately. Even staying in a seated position required too much energy.

Yet, throughout my recovery, I couldn’t let go of the idea that I should be able to do more. I kept comparing my abilities to where I was before the fall and thought I should be able to work more hours, finish more chores, join more social outings. But every time I ignored my body and did more, I took a big step back in my recovery and what I could do.

I regressed to the point where walking one block was a challenge, and I was forced to scale back my activities. Hitting the gym or practicing yoga was definitely out of the question. For weeks, I could do one thing a day. I could cook a meal or wash laundry. I could get coffee with a friend or take out the garbage. That was it. It was a difficult reality to accept.

Sleep disturbance

Despite being utterly exhausted, I had trouble falling and staying asleep. My sleep schedule was erratic, vacillating wildly between a couple hours a night and sleeping on and off throughout the day.

My quality of sleep also suffered. The anxiety I experienced while awake seeped into my dreams. I had nightmares of being chased and tortured in such gruesome detail that I wondered how such horrific things could come from my mind. If you know me, you know I can’t watch even remotely scary TV shows, let alone horror movies.

Psychological vertigo

The cognitive symptoms were the most challenging. Because the brain injury affected my memory and ability to process information and problem-solve, I was convinced that I was fine even at times during my leave of absence from work. I know that sounds crazy after what I’ve described above. It was.

There was an endless stream of clues that suggested otherwise: I’d find things in random places, like toothpaste in the refrigerator. I’d forget to pay bills. I kept ordering spicy food at restaurants even though I have a low tolerance for it.

My neurology appointments were a wake-up call. My doctor would ask me a simple question like, “How’s your sleep?” I’d answer that it was fine. Then my sister, who attended all my appointments, would gently remind me that I had in fact complained of sleeping only three hours a night several times in the past week. I was shocked. I had truly forgotten that. My sister is someone I trust completely. She’s a registered nurse who routinely works with patients with brain dysfunction, and she played a major role in taking care of me, including checking in on me every day. It was unnerving to hear that her memory and observations of my symptoms differed so drastically from mine.

This happened time and time again—and not just with my sister, but many other people in my life. What do you do when your perception of reality is off and you can’t trust your own judgment? After countless times of being shown that my memory had failed or my brain had processed something incorrectly, I started to doubt and second-guess myself.

It became difficult to decipher what was real and what wasn’t. I lost my anchor to any sort of truth, which I started to refer to as psychological vertigo. It was beyond disorienting.

The fallout

It still boggles my mind that all of this occurred from a ground-level fall when I was walking. My symptoms were the most acute during the six months following my fall. Thankfully, I’ve since had significant improvement on all fronts.

My recovery has been a long, confusing process. I know this account of it may sound negative, but so much good has come from it. I’ve learned a lot about myself and have gained new skills and coping mechanisms. I’ll elaborate on this topic in my next concussion post.