Anniversaries are often a good time to reflect back on events, both good and bad.  As I’m uploading this blog post, it has been exactly three years since my life was turned upside down, by an accident that I can’t even remember. This anniversary is particularly noteworthy, because my accident was followed, roughly and unofficially, by spending eighteen months in “post concussion hell”.  In other words, I’ve now managed to have escaped it, as long as I had been imprisoned by it.

So, what accounted for the change?  I wish I knew, but the truth is that there isn’t one single answer.  A combination of- in no particular order- time, persistence, luck, support, therapy, hobbies, perspective, social interaction, and medication changes, all played a role, to various degrees.  In October 2018, I started playing guitar on a regular basis.  A month later, I moved into my own apartment.  In April 2019, I became consumed by Game of Thrones.  That last one might sound kind of silly, but the fact that I was able to be consumed by a television show- albeit a crazy one- really showed me that I had regained my ability to enjoy things in life again.  None of these activities specifically marked a turning point- it took several months of living on my own again, before I felt comfortable with it- but they were all accomplishments that I never thought would be possible, during that hellish period after my accident.  At the time of this blog, I am feeling reasonably optimistic about my life, and not only grateful for all the things I am optimistic about, but for the optimism itself.  There’s nothing like gaining back some hope after losing all of it, to really be able to appreciate it.

Right now, my biggest concerns don’t involve myself, but all that’s going on “out there”.  Since everyone’s reality got turned upside down a few months ago “to stop the spread”, I’ve actually managed to enjoy the relative quiet of more people staying at home.  But as someone who already spent plenty of time avoiding the dangers of the outside world, rest assured, continuing to do so on a daily basis only serves to enforce that mentality, whether the coronavirus threat fades or not.

It’s also worth remembering that as so many of our resources have gone to prevent one threat, so many others have gone unchecked.  Watching our society increasingly gripped with fear and loathing, not just of the virus but of each other, makes me think about how difficult it must be for those who are in serious need of help, as I was not that long ago.  A big part of my recovery was achieved thanks to the help of others, but I recognize how tough it must be for those who don’t have the same access right now.

My best advice to anyone dealing with such challenges is that even with these new obstacles, there are people out there who care, are willing to help, and thanks to technology, can be reached pretty easily.  As important as it is to live in the present, there is always hope to build a better future, so long as you’re willing to try.

So that’s three years in the books.  I can’t begin to imagine what the next three will bring, but given the times we’re living in, who knows how things will even be in three months?  We’ll all find out soon enough.

The other day, I was looking online at apartment prices throughout the country.  I’m not expecting to move anytime soon- quite the contrary.  I just like researching overpriced neighborhoods, to make myself feel better about what I’m paying to put a roof over my head.  Out of morbid curiosity, I checked the prices of the last apartment building where I lived in California.  By coincidence, the exact unit that I had lived in was up for leasing, complete with a picture of my old balcony, pictured below.  As I stared at the picture and thought back to that time in my life, which ended up being critical beyond words- although that never stops me from trying- I broke down and cried.  The fact that the price had gone up so much in the two+ years since I unceremoniously left didn’t make me feel any better.  Well- maybe a little bit better.  But overall, I just found myself overcome with feelings of sadness, frustration, and a touch of rage at what should have been.

Even though I wasn’t really surprised by this wave of emotions, as I’ve been dealing with them since the concussion I suffered in that very same apartment, I was curious about the specific reason(s) that this picture triggered them so strongly.  Ironically enough, these memories of my last days of California has me struggling with a future trip to Long Island, which will be very short, but I expect to also be quite emotional, as well.

My history with Long Island dates back to the day I was born, but it’s primarily the most recent years, spending time at the house that my sister and her immediate family reside in, that I have such strong emotional ties to.  This is also pretty ironic, considering that I didn’t spend THAT much time there.  However, similar to my time in that last apartment in LA, it’s how I spent my time there that makes my emotional reaction so strong.  Incidentally, I hadn’t spent that much time in my last LA apartment, either, only living there for eight months.  (Even without my accident, I only would have been there a few weeks longer, as I’d signed a lease for a much cheaper, less comfortable studio a few blocks away, to save money for the future.  Whether that was the right decision or not, I’ll never know.  But I digress.)  I can honestly say that the first seven months in that apartment were probably the best of my life- not because of any specific event, but just because I was feeling as confident about myself and my future as I can recall.  (For more on that, click here.)   By extreme contrast, my eighth and last month there was, by far, the worst month of my life, at least up until that point.  Given how broken up I got when recalling my time there, I don’t know what I was reacting more strongly to.  Was it the enjoyable but (in hindsight) deceptive seven months, and the false optimism that it gave me?  Or, was it the terrifying final month, one which I could feel my life and sanity slipping away, without any plan on how to get them back?  The answer is probably somewhere in between, but to what percentage of each I have no idea.

Getting back to my sister’s house in Long Island, though, I am doing my best to not think in those terms.  My niece Ilana is being honored for her hard work in recovering from her injury, and believe me- she deserves it.  As a brain injury survivor AND caring uncle, I practically feel obligated to attend this event.  However, being back there at the house where my “Uncle Scott” identity was so closely tied, it’s even more difficult than thinking about my old apartment in LA.  For one thing, when it comes to California, I can just shut down the web browser and turn my mind back to the present day.  But in the case of Long Island, this IS the present day!  (Well…tomorrow, specifically.)  Also, unlike my apartment and the two different phases (great seven months, awful final month), there are actually three different time periods that stick out in my mind.

The first, “The Golden Era”, is everything prior to my Ilana’s brain injury.  I can’t recall anything in my life that had come so easily and brought me such joy, than just being an uncle.  While I knew it wouldn’t last forever- kids grow up, of course- I was traumatized (along with the rest of my family) when the joy got cut short, with Ilana’s encephalitis and subsequent acquired brain injury in April 2015.  With that, began “the second phase”.  I was still very happy to be an uncle, but it was no longer a carefree experience.  Staying in the same house with Ilana, not knowing what her condition would be or how I would be able to handle it when I woke up each day, took a long time to adjust to.  Fortunately, Ilana improved considerably over time, and I actually took a sense of pride in sticking with her through the tough times.  In fact, I actually increased my visits to Long Island after she got sick, overcoming whatever fear I had of not being able to handle the challenge- a challenge that, at the time, was easily the biggest of my adult life.

It wouldn’t last.  Barely two years after her brain injury came my own, and I wasn’t nearly as up for that challenge.  As my psychological condition continued to worsen, my sister’s house was the first stop I made after leaving California, leading to “the third phase”, which ended up lasting nearly three weeks.  Spending most of my time locked in the guest room, looking out the window in terror as if observing a world that I no longer belonged to, I wanted to escape by whatever means necessary.  I don’t know how much Ilana noticed, given her own issues, but my nephew Evan, normally very enthusiastic about having me around, seemed increasingly uncomfortable.  (Kids can be very perceptive.)  The whole situation had me literally screaming in tears, and the last time I saw the house, it was on my way to a psychiatric hospital in Manhattan.

That all happened nearly two years before I ended up typing this, and a whole lot has changed since then- thankfully, almost entirely for the better.  As mentioned before, I’ve managed to build a new life for myself, and have written pretty extensively in this blog about the adjustments I’ve made.  (Feel free to check the archives.)  Nevertheless, the trauma of it all still haunts me, and the more a setting reminds me of that trauma, or even (especially?) the good times before I had to deal with it, the more difficult it is for me to cope.  (This blog post here specifically addresses that.)

One of the reasons why I’ve been able to have relative success in the life I am building is that by living in a New Jersey town where I have no previous history, I have been able to avoid the burden of dealing with old memories.  But regionally speaking, I’m pretty close to a lot of places that have a fair amount of personal history, and it’s almost certainly counterproductive for me to purposely avoid them.  Hopefully, by confronting one of the most challenging places that can be found east of the San Andreas fault, I can start to work on “the fourth phase”- one which is tied more closely with the life I’m trying to build now, instead of the one that I was forced to leave behind.

(Originally posted March 21, 2019 11:55 PM)

A little over a month ago, I visited my sister’s family, who were staying at the Sheraton Inn, about a half hour from where I currently live.  Standing outside of the hotel, I found myself holding back tears, as I was flooded with a wonderful yet bitter memory.  At a certain point, I decided to stop holding them back, and it didn’t matter to me who saw- if anything, I was glad to show the world just how much emotional pain I was feeling!  The last time I had been there was also during a family visit, back in 2016, when we were celebrating the fact that my niece, Ilana, was well enough to travel after her brain injury.  I recall at the time thinking how great it was that not only was she still alive slightly more than a year later, but she was making great progress.  I was reasonably sure that the worst for her, myself, and my family was behind us.  Little did I realize that in slightly more than another year, the worst for me was still to come.  Standing in the front of this very same hotel in 2019 was a cruel reminder of that.

Stock photo of the Sheraton in Parsippany, NJ

One of the hardest parts about dealing with my brain injury is when I need to confront my “previous life”. Although I have worked hard to create a new life for myself, and have had lots of help along the way, I can’t escape the fact that the first 40 years are still a big part of who I am today. The problem is that it doesn’t FEEL that way. For example, I often have trouble listening to music I like, for the simple reason that it reminds me of who I used to be. But, like so many other aspects of my life, I’ve worked on trying to overcome it. But “working on” listening to music is pretty easy, insofar as the effort I need to put into it- I just have to hit play! Dealing with people I knew before is much more complex, which is why I struggle so much with Ilana, along with her brother, Evan.

I’ve written and talked about them a lot, and it’s not hard to explain why- quite simply, being an uncle was the most important aspect of my life. Not coincidentally, it was also my most successful. While living on the other side of the country, the time I spent with them averaged out to roughly one month a year (slightly more than that the year Ilana got sick), but I made sure that it counted. And I was happy about the fact that they were finally old enough to come out and visit ME in California. My life, like pretty much everyone else’s, has had its fair shares of ups and downs, but there weren’t any “downs” with the kids. Sure, it was incredibly painful to watch Ilana get sick, but it also gave me a chance to really contribute to her recovery, letting her know that I’d always be there for her…until I wasn’t.

The most bitter irony of what happened to me- and believe me, there are quite a few to choose from- is that I don’t see Ilana and Evan very much anymore. While the commute has been cut down well over 2,500 miles, it’s just too much for me to handle. The travelling is bad enough, but how do I interact with them, even when I do get a chance to see them?  They’re old enough to understand that something has happened to me, but not old enough to understand what happened to me.   I’m also upset- furious, actually- that I had this special relationship with them, which I doubt now they will even be able to remember.  And even if they do remember it, they’re certainly too young for it to be their main thought about me.  Hell, I even worry that the adults in my family won’t remember me for who I used to be!  (I don’t worry about my “pre-TBI friends” nearly as much, only because as of this post, I don’t ever see any of them.)

To add insult to injury, I can’t talk about any of this with the kids, because they’re…well, kids!  I can barely show any negative emotion, as they are too vulnerable themselves. It’s bad enough that I can’t be there for them, but the thought that I might actually be a DESTRUCTIVE force in their life disgusts me, and was never something I would have even considered in my worst fears.

The final obstacle that makes this challenge so unique is time. All other things- commuting, working, socializing, etc.- can happen at whatever pace is appropriate. With the kids, every day that I struggle with this is a day of their childhood that I miss out on.  Sometimes, I find this hard to explain to all the parents out there just how painful this is for me, because I’m “just” an uncle. For the record, I recognize that I can’t comprehend just how difficult being a parent is. But I can also claim that to have such strong bonds broken by an outside force- literally, and completely beyond my control- is something that not even most PARENTS can understand, outside of the ones who have experienced it.

It’s worth acknowledging that someone doesn’t need to have a brain injury- or ANY type of trauma, for that matter- to have a drastic change in a relationship with someone else. This is especially true with kids- they grow up, their sense of humor changes, they want to spend less time with their family and more with their friends- etc.. The difference in my case is that I, the adult, am the one who changed the nature of this relationship with the kids- not through the natural course of time, and certainly not for the better.  So far, I’ve learned to compensate in various aspects of life, which I previously did not think I’d be able to do. But rebuilding relationships with ANYONE, let alone two little kids too young to understand all this, is more challenging than anything I’ve done so far. Will I be able to do it, in a way that I can accept? Honestly, at this point, I just don’t know.

At least I’ll get another chance in a few days, heading up to Albany, to visit the kids and the rest of my family.  Funny that I can’t go to relatively nearby Long Island, because the memories are too overwhelming, while Albany- which I believe is somewhere in the Arctic Circle- is fair game.  (Also, Amtrak is much nicer than the Long Island Railroad.)  It certainly won’t be easy, but given that I have no history there, it will hopefully be manageable.  Either way, there’s only one way to find out.

This blog post is going to start with the world’s most boring confession- I have unresolved issues from my past. Whoop-dee-doo, right? Who doesn’t? I mean, I didn’t have the happiest middle class upbringing in America, but I was fortunate enough to HAVE a middle class upbringing in America. Besides, I didn’t have anything significant enough to stop me from becoming a pretty successful adult. That is, until I suffered a brain injury.

I don’t understand how the whole “trauma” things works, really. I can’t pretend I didn’t occasionally dwell on the past, particularly if something in the present triggered my memory. But I’d quickly snap out of it, reminding myself that, as Steven Tyler once said- ironically enough, on Aerosmith’s very first album- “the past is gone.” As it turns out, the past isn’t so much gone, as it is stored away somewhere. It’s almost as though all those unresolved issues were contained in a dry powder keg, and the concussion was like lighting a match to it. It all hit me at once, and I don’t really know how to deal with it- let alone the NEW problems that have sprung up since.

The good news is that I’ve gradually been able to create a new life for myself, with lots of help from others. (I’ve documented that in previous posts.) As such, I don’t HAVE to constantly dwell in these issues from the past as much, because I’m too busy trying to build a present and future. However, with a brain injury, I can only focus so much, before my mind takes me elsewhere. This was a very serious problem early on, when I would have thoughts that seemed to be coming from other places. It’s hard to explain, but it was kind of similar to hearing voices, without ACTUALLY hearing them. (In other words, they existed in thought only.) As of this post, they’ve been contained to my dreams- and therein lies the problem.

Facing the world with a chronic “fight-or-flight” response is hard enough as it is, without starting the day in a state of terror- but try telling that to my subconscious! In recent months, I have been reminded of tension within my family, insecurities at school, leaving my life in California without warning, as well as accidents besides my concussion- which, incidentally, I don’t remember at all, and a variety of other seemingly long forgotten issues. Lest I wallow too much in the distant past, my subconscious- which conjures up far more creative scenarios than I ever could do while awake- mixes in my newfound fear of long lines at the grocery store, suburban sprawl, Uber drivers with a poor sense of direction, my continued shock at the condition I find myself in, and my fear and sadness at trying to rebuild my relationships within my family.  In one dream, my subconscious even managed to incorporate real life physical sensations- specifically, the fact that I drank way too much water the night before, but couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t feeling any relief when I…well, click here, if you must. (Of course, this beats the alternative of FEELING relief during the dream. Too much info? Let’s move on…)

As for the dreams themselves, I can’t remember ALL of them. Sometimes, I’ll wake up and say, “Oh! I have to write that down…but then I’d have to get out of bed. Eh, it’s okay. I’ll remember it later…” and then I don’t. But no matter, because there’s plenty to work with here, including-

-Throwing my niece and nephew in the air like I used to, then wondering why it feels so empty.

-Selling my dad’s house in Pennsylvania, except that the house is off PA-926 in the dream, whereas it was off of PA-52 in reality. (Also, that we sold that house over twenty years ago.)

-Deciding whether to study for a test that I totally forgot about, or playing guitar.

-Going to high school with a brain injury, wondering if the other kids will show mercy, given the circumstances.

-Watching some fictional vintage video of Yogi Berra in his later years, talking about what it was like to be on the Yankees’ version of Mount Rushmore. (Unfortunately for Yogi, this would only be true in real life if Mount Rushmore added another spot- the ACTUAL Yankee version includes Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe Dimaggio, and Mickey Mantle.)

-Dating more than one woman at the same time- LITERALLY, at the same time, ala Peter Brady (https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0531162/)- which ultimately led to the women (ALL of them) to be either bored or angry with me. Making this even more interesting, I actually remembered the episode of the Brady Bunch IN THE DREAM, although I probably haven’t given it more than 30 seconds of conscious thought in over 30 years, outside of the one time they mocked in on South Park- and I hadn’t seen THAT episode in about 20 years, either.

-Mark Hamill, somehow starring as the Joker in the 1968 version of Batman starring Adam West (yes, I actually remembered the year in my dream), except he went on an ACTUAL murdering spree. (And you thought that version was too campy!)  And, last but not least…

-Watching a replay of the 1985 World Series, where the Cardinals famously lost on a bad call- actually true in real life- and Peewee Herman tried to get a sacrifice bunt down.  (Hey, at least I didn’t dream he was trying to hit a home run, because THAT would have been weird!)

Where does all this come from? Well, I can’t really explain the last two, but the rest actually do make a fair amount of sense, believe it or not. The one about my niece and nephew doesn’t really require Sigmund Freud’s interpretation, although it DOES require lots of therapy. The sale of my dad’s house comes from a combination of the past being unleashed, along with my incredible regret at selling my condo in LA a couple of years back, which I still suspect may have partially led to my TBI, ala “the butterfly effect”. Also interesting is “926”, a number that Ilana found humor in, not long before my accident. (She finds humor in lots of bizarre things, which is probably why she thought I was so funny.)

The guitar/homework one might have more than meets the eye. On one hand, it’s a clear throwback to the fact that I never really got to be the guitar player I wanted to be in high school, partly because my time management left something to be desired, even by teenage standards. (There were other factors, which I won’t get into here.) But also, there’s a much more recent story- as I was getting ready to sell my condo, I realized that most of what I owned- which wasn’t all that much to begin with- was junk. One exception was my guitar, which I had barely played for the few years that I had owned it. So I picked it up while watching TV (one of the few OTHER items I didn’t need to throw out), and was surprised by how motivated I felt. I barely missed a day of practice for nearly eight months…until my life came crashing down. When I tried picking it up a few months after my accident, I was disgusted not only by my regression, but just how futile it all seemed.

I figured that I’d picked up the guitar for the last time. Then, last October- almost exactly two years after I’d started playing regularly again- I started playing regularly again…AGAIN! Now that I’m well past my pre-TBI record, currently at 466 notes/minute and climbing (500 if I REALLY want my hand to hurt), I guess I have some sort of fear it will all fall apart again, almost like my guitar playing is linked to my accident. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but then again, neither does Mark Hamill going on an ACTUAL killing spree in a 60’s TV sitcom.

So what else…

The high school and brain injury is past fears meet present fears. That ones’s pretty straightforward.

The Yogi Berra one actually makes sense to me. Not long before turning 40 and not long after my niece’s illness, I became obsessed with mortality. Then, Yogi Berra died. I saw what an incredible life he led, and started to chart my progress in life, with where he was at when he was my age. That didn’t last too long, because after my injury, I have a pretty different view of my own mortality. I’ll save that one for another post, at another time.

Dating? Well…I don’t drive anymore. I don’t drink anymore. My social outings are restricted, in both time and location. I don’t make a full salary anymore.  I’m pleasantly surprised that I’m able to socialize AT ALL, but like so many other things, it’s not the same. And that can be pretty upsetting. My subconscious seems to have taken notice.

Mark Hamill, the sixties sitcom star/murderer, and Peewee Herman the baseball player? I’ll leave that to others.

The bottom line is that just like the famous line, “In space, no one can hear you scream,” the same goes for dreams. No matter how many times people assure me that “I’m not alone,” the fact of the matter is, I am VERY alone- quite literally- when I’m asleep. Snitching on my mind when I’m not in control of it seems like as good of a way as any to deal with it.

*Officially speaking, my address is not Hamilton Street, but it just has a better ring to it than “Nightmare On Veterans Memorial Drive East”