Grief. You are a natural sister to pain and wisdom’s well. You speak the truth that for wounds to surrender their power they must be felt. And fully.
You are here while I now mourn my concussion: fullness of life lost and not yet fully regained; profound isolation; devastating loss of self; prolonged physical, emotional, and psychological anguish; a complicated remedy and agonizing climb to wellness.
You see the poetry lost, art dashed, dreams deferred, and you invite me to weep.
You say, “Put your bravery down. Be done, for now, with pleasant speeches, with your natural optimism, with looking, with hope. Proceed at your own pace.”
You know that the injury of a brain is hateful, provoking a particular war to master one’s very self that not everyone must wage and thus cannot understand.
Grief, you hold my hand as I rise ever so slowly from the dead.
“An injury to the magnificent, mysterious brain can upset the familiar story of a life in ways no other injury or illness can. You may face not only challenges with your physical abilities but, more essentially, you may find yourself wrestling with difficult mental and emotional changes. So much you knew about yourself — the wealth of information you depended upon to lead your life — can blur or disappear, leaving you stranded and struggling in an unknown place. You can feel as though you’ve been kidnapped to an alien planet where nothing is familiar, where you feel threatened and lost. You might even feel as though you have disappeared.” *