I remember the first Thanksgiving following my concussion. I didn’t realize that this occasion of coming together could be so dark, painful and even more isolating for me. 

As a fresh reminder, I have five brothers, four sisters, seven nieces and eleven nephews. So, you can imagine just how big some of our family gatherings are. My very large family piled into the house. Just greeting everyone produced a lot of anxiety and required all of my depleted energy. I was so troubled by my vision that I felt guilty for not being able to maintain eye contact and having to look away frequently. It was so painful and that is still an issue I experience to this day. 

It didn’t really occur to me to mentally prepare for the occasion, maybe partially because I was still in denial about my injury and because I hadn’t fully understood what was going on inside my body at that point. I figured it wasn’t a gathering with strangers so it would be completely comfortable and enjoyable.

As more and more people arrived, the more and more stimulation I experienced. I was having a difficult time processing the noise of the various conversations and the movement of people in the house. I felt like I was going insane attempting to maintain a conversation while hearing all of the background noise on top of the ringing in my ears. I kept going up to my room to hide in my bathroom to get away from it all for brief moments. Why can’t I even enjoy my family’s presence? It’s not like I was mingling with strangers. I could feel myself shutting down, breaking down. 

Because of the amount of people at Thanksgiving, we had several very long tables set up and connected together. I took my seat at the table and looked around at everyone conversing, laughing and enjoying the moment. I wanted to experience that but couldn’t. Everyone started eating and just hearing the silverware clinking on the plates began to hurt my ears. The tiniest movement of someone bumping the table or moving their chair caused me to feel so dizzy and nauseated to the point I felt I was going to throw up. I felt too embarrassed to ask everyone to stop nudging the table so I didn’t speak up. 

I couldn’t enjoy it. I sat at the table surrounded by my large, loving family yet felt so alone. I was physically there, but almost felt invisible. I felt so removed from myself.

Of course, many of the conversations I engaged in included questions about how I was doing and feeling. I said I was “okay.” This was the easy response that took up the least amount of energy. I was told I “looked good” or “I looked fine.” While I may have looked “good” on the outside, I was certainly not feeling good nor did I feel fine. This was so troubling to me – the external invisibility of the injury – a theme that has played over and over throughout my recovery. There’s really no external sign of what I was and am going through. 

After the meal, everyone gathered at the table to play some games. I sat and watched. I smiled to essentially “play along.” This was just a lie to myself and everyone there. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself nor did I want to be a downer. The games started to become more energetic and the environment became so loud. 

There was a lot of movement at the table; it felt like it was constantly moving or vibrating. I became so dizzy and nauseated that I finally had it in me to speak up and ask if they would stop bumping the table. I felt embarrassed and also crazy for asking this because it was something that was so subtle and probably not even noticeable to everyone else. Pre-injury, I would have never noticed it.

I continued to watch. The longer this carried on, the more symptoms I developed. The longer this carried on, the more disconnected I felt. It was so disheartening to me because this was my family who I was supposed to feel comfortable with. It never crossed my mind that I would experience this with those really close to me. Questions started popping up in my head. Will I ever be able to enjoy this again? When will I feel like myself again? Will anyone ever fully understand what I’m really going through? Where do I belong anymore?

Everyone left and I went to my room where I sat in the dark, holding my head. Crying uncontrollably, I continued to suffer in silence. 

It felt like a nightmare and I so desperately wanted someone to wake me up.