My Tender Sleep

There was a skunk nearby last night. The smell woke me from my tender sleep. Sleep and I have had a complicated relationship over the years. We've loved each other, we've been in conflict, we've found peace together at times.

As I lie quietly, the rhythmic sounds of my partner's breathing try to lull me back to sleep, but the strong skunk-smell pulls at my consciousness and keeps me awake.

And the thoughts begin to flood in. So, I get up, make the coffee (I'm out of half n' half, grrr) and here I am, comfortably seated in my favorite chair, lap-top on my lap. Writing. Happy. Sun rising.

Yesterday, I posted the last few paragraphs from chapter one. For so many years I couldn't let go of the idea of, "why'd this happen to me?" My life was good. The day was perfect. Then, suddenly, without warning, it was all different.

"The dead don't know they're dead" (at first)--a line (roughly paraphrased) from the movie the "Sixth Sense." I know why! Because for some deaths, it happens too suddenly. There you are, kissing your loved one good-bye as you head off to work or go to bed that night or take that flight, and you never return. You never see them again. Or maybe more correctly, they never see you again.

It was like that for me. As soon as I came to, there was conflict between what my recent former self knew to do in an accident and what my now brand-spanking new brain injured self was trying to do. There was too much commotion. Too many people. Too many questions. I couldn't piece it all together.

Then sleep came. We became best friends for awhile. I slept and slept and slept. And when I was technically awake, I slept.

Having a brain injury is like that foggy feeling you get when you've been in a deep sleep and are suddenly awakened and you can't quite get oriented to the place, day or time.

I was in that foggy place for so long. The brain-injured don't know their brain has been injured (at first).

I became slow and stupid. It became my new normal.