The Flawed Ones

It’s Science Fair time. Those of you who are parents are nodding right now–you know my pain. The Science Fair…it’s optional in our county. We live in a highly educated, competitive county, so even though it’s optional, a lot of kids participate. This is a good thing.

Many parents also participate. This isn’t such a good thing. We joke that we can tell  which ones had a “little bit of help” from parents. It is always abundantly clear that my children were left to their own devices come Science Fair time (reference accompanying photo above). Science is not my strong suit. In high school,  I literally cried daily in physics class, and every other day in chemistry class (calculus and gym were also pretty ugly, but that’s for another time). I know what my strengths are–writing is one, and apparently being easily overwhelmed and emotional is another. Science, not so much.

So I give my children the guidelines, a pair of scissors, paper, glue and markers. GO! Somehow no one gets an impromptu haircut, and two display boards come out at the end. I hope theirs are displayed near the back, and not next to the motorized robot fueled by corn oil freshly pressed from homegrown corn.

I was talking to a friend about this, and she noted that her husband is a Science Fair judge on the state level (State level?? I am so mediocre I had never even HEARD of Science Fair on a state level!). She said he enjoys seeing all the hard work and enthusiasm from the students, and that “It’s always the flawed ones that win.”

She said the judges are no fools, they know which ones are truly made by students, and they reward the kids who tried their best. Perfection is not a goal or indicator for success.

Ain’t that the truth? Science fair projects aside, we live in a world of self-imposed perfectionism. Goal weights, homemade healthy snacks, lofty job titles, tidy homes with the white picket fence. We’re slaves to trying to be perfect in some form or another. We’re supposed to be smart, attractive, organized, well-mannered, athletic, busy volunteers, dedicated employees, good cooks, patient parents. 

It’s when we stop trying to be perfect and instead admit our flaws that we can truly live a fulfilled and satisfying life. Isn’t living a happy and full life true success? Comparing our version of perfectionsim  and chasing the validation of others because we look neat and tidy and respectable and responsible and overachieving  is a losing proposition. It’s smoke and mirrors at best, and elusive at worst. And it’s always exhausting and empty. See, it’s the flawed ones that win in the end.

It’s those of us who are a little messy inside (and inside our homes and cars), a little too loud, a little scatter-brained and unorganized, a little late to appointments, a little soft around our physical edges and rough around our mental edges–those are the interesting ones. Those are people living their lives out loud.

So in both life and at the Science Fair, I tell my kids to do what they’re interested in and to try their best. They’re not scientists but they’re also not idiots–they know their misspelled and crooked display boards are quaint at best. But they can own their work. I hope they present their projects with pride. I hope through their lives, they can own their true selves and their stories, and present themselves with pride. The flawed ones–they win.

You’re Invited

My 9-year-old son was invited to a birthday party. Our lives consist primarily of barreling through endless homework, too many extracurricular activities, high-pitched whining, random Nerf gun fights, and chaotic evening routines–punctuated by holidays and birthday parties. So I assumed we’d buy the obligatory $20 gift from Target and RSVP “yes.”

I told my son he was invited to a party, and was about to confirm his attendance when he said “Oh, I’m not going.” What?! Did he know something about our social calendar that I didn’t (wouldn’t be the first time)? No, turns out he explained very concisely to me that in fact, he didn’t want to go because this child was “a school friend” and was not very kind to him. Therefore, my son didn’t feel obligated to interact socially with this child outside of the school day. They play together in school–he knows that forced circumstances require certain social norms, but he didn’t feel obligated or compelled to be friendly outside of the school day. Because this kid consistently isn’t nice to him. Why would he want to spend time with someone who wasn’t nice to him, he asked. 

Proud. Mama. Moment. 

My son understands that we have different kinds of friends. That some friends are confidants, some are sports teammates, some are fun-time friends, some are acquaintances, some are school friends. But that there is a different level of intensity and trust and boundaries with each friend–that one size does not fit all. We don’t all have to be friends, and we don’t have to be the same kind of friend. We don’t all have to get along all the time and be besties, and you can and should still be nice and civil. He understands there is value in honoring your personal boundaries and you don’t need to feel obligated to do anything you’re not comfortable with. That you don’t have to subject yourself to spending time with people who are not good to you. I’m so proud of him because so many adults still don’t get this.

It’s moments like this that I think I might actually be a good mother. I am however bummed I don’t get a good excuse to go to Target and troll the clearance racks.

Versatility

Versatile–I’ve been nominated by mommyverbs for the Versatile Blogger Award. If you haven’t taken my advice yet to check out her blog, you’re dead to me. Not only do you not know what you’re missing, but you clearly don’t trust my advice so we need to re-evaluate our relationship. Much gratitude to mommyverbs—I think the world of her, and am grateful for her presence in my life. I’m humbled by her recognition of me. Thank you.

Versatile–This blog started off with the intention of being a place for sharing life lessons; to creating a place to consider how we live our lives; to discussing how we arrive at the decisions we make; to wading through the work to become our real, authentic selves; to taking risks and doing hard things in life; to reminding ourselves to be kind to ourselves and others; to incorporating joy and gratitude into our daily lives.

Versatile–I however am only able to write when I’m inspired (I could never write under deadlines, which is the practical reason I am only a writer in my head and living room). So it’s turned into a mishmash of my inspirations: lessons learned, observations, pleas for social change, and random ramblings. It’s become a reflection of how versatile I am: I’m all over the place with my interests, so it’s apropros that I’ve been nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award.

So here’s the dealio:

1. Display the award logo on your blog
2. Thank and link back to the blog who nominated you
3. State 7 things about yourself
4. Nominate 15 other bloggers for this award
5. Notify these bloggers of their nomination by linking back to their blog

Game on:

I have no rhythm, and can’t dance well unless you’re drunk.

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions–why wait to do something meaningful only once a year? I believe in doing what matters when it matters.

I got an iPod as a gift 6 years ago–no idea how to use it. I know how to press play. And stop.  And put music on it. Otherwise that’s about it. Playlist?? Ha.

I have never broken a bone.

Sometimes I forget I’m the one responsible for providing a meal/something edible for dinner. I never used to be this scatterbrained. I’d like to think this is a sign of a full and good life as opposed to irresponsibility or dementia.

I hate public transportation–I need to feel like I’m in control in case I ever need to flee.

I always forget sorrows float.

Other Versatile Bloggers:

Rarasaur

Emskiruns

Rather Be Runnin’

Fun Girls Live Better!

Run5Kaday’s Blog

My World with TBI

The Circus Girl Blog

The Dough Will Rise Again

Lessons From the End of a Marriage

Mindfulkids

Fit For a Year

A Wild One Within

The Foodies

Rantings of an Amateur Chef

TheReporterandtheGirlMINUSTheSuperman

Expect Delays/Detours

“Foot Race. Expect Delays/Detours”  This sign is posted all over town. It’s to warn people of the race this weekend that I am registered for, and cannot run. I’ve seen this sign for days now, and it’s made me sad looking at it because I knew I wouldn’t be able to run it. My physical therapist informed me that it’s likely that running isn’t in my life for the next 12 weeks. I scared a room full of people by spontaneously breaking down in sobs. Really. They looked seriously alarmed, but by virtue of them being in physical therapy, they could not quickly put space between themselves and my tears.

Why was I crying, and why did a road sign make me sad? Glad you asked, let me tell you a story. I am registered for a 10K, a 10-miler, and two half marathons this month. I can’t run any of them. The two half marathons were the most important to me.

I never had a desire run a half marathon. I had run 13.2 miles on my own a few times. I knew I could physically do it, so there was no allure to completing an official race. Until one day I heard there was a special medal to be had if I completed TWO half marathons within 7 days. In my oddly competitive way, I knew I had to have that medal. I could do it, I run 11 miles as my long run every week. The medal and bragging rights were mine!

Until I conveniently picked up an overuse injury–a pinched nerve that caused severe pain from my back all the way down my leg. In the course of rehabbing it to get me race ready, I pushed myself too hard twice. I don’t like accepting defeat. I even thought, “If I don’t admit out loud to anyone that I can feel the pain, maybe it doesn’t exist.” Yes, I have moments of being seriously delusional. This is really, really hard for me for many reasons.

One of them is my bad habit of forcing things. I am really good at making things happen when it may not be in my best interest. I am a tenacious, fierce, stubborn force to behold. This serves me well in being successful in many arenas of my life. However, like with everything, moderation is the key–knowing when to cry uncle; picking and choosing your battles is key. Running two races with an injury for the sake of getting a medal is definitely forcing something when it isn’t in my best interest. Some days it’s still hard to not be my own worst enemy.

I know this in my head, I get it intellectually. But I feel such deep sorrow right now. It’s already been two months without a good run. Running has become such a part of me that I feel lost right now. No one seems to understand this. They think I’m just stubborn, or addicted to the runner’s high, or I’m a fitness freak. Parts of those issues might have some slight truths, but it’s more than that. It’s not the high I’m addicted to. It’s that running is how I process thoughts and stress; it’s who I am; it’s how I navigate my life. It grounds me. I feel unanchored now. I feel like I’m missing a part of who I am.

I’m reminded also that this journey of rehabbing this injury and not knowing if I could run the races is really a journey of life. The lessons are reminders of readjusting goals and expectations. Of coping with disappointments, living with uncertainty, accepting what life hands you, and breathing through all of this. Of not forcing things and being kind and compassionate to yourself, and knowing when to surrender. Of being patient and accepting that things take time. Of understanding I can only control so much, and the most important thing I can control is my breath. Foot races and life: Expect Delays and Detours. 

The Lost Art of Dating: A Public Service Announcement

I’ve posted some heavy topics of late. I believe life is fabulous and fun alongside the sorrows and tears. To that end, let’s lighten things up.

I continue to be grateful for all the life lessons and experiences that dating has provided. I try to keep in mind that we’re in the same boat–we’re looking for some form of support and companionship, someone who makes our hearts beat a little faster, someone we can confide in, someone who gets us. So I try to be compassionate even when it’s obvious it’s not a good fit for me. For the most part, these are well-intentioned men. I think they just need some fine-tuning in the social skills department–so here’s my Top 10 Comments For the Fellas, plus one to grow on:

-Wishing me a Happy Thong Thursday won’t get you very far. The fact that you’re in your 40’s makes it that much worse.

-When you describe a fantasy at the Whole Foods salad bar in great detail, I’m very reluctant to meet you for lunch. I will also never look at dried cranberries and sunflower seeds the same way again.

-When you say that you’re not afraid of PDA, it doesn’t mean it’s wise to disclose in your very first text message that you wish you were cuddling with me now. I. Haven’t. Even. Met. You. Yet.

-If you text me six times in 10 hours asking if I’ve received your texts, the only proper response is: “No, just like I didn’t get this one.”

-Don’t bite me on our second date. In fact, don’t bite me ever. Please understand I don’t consider it a compliment of any sort.

-I’m left speechless when you take yourself out of the running because you think I should be dating “someone much better looking and more fun.” It actually leaves me kinda sad that you feel that way. But I should definitely be dating someone with a more secure sense of self.

-When you send me several emails that say the same thing, I’m led to believe you’re sending the same form letter to everyone and you’ve forgotten you’ve sent it to me four times already.

-Using an affectionate pet name: Could be cute, but not when I haven’t met you yet. Because then it’s just disingenuous or a bit much, or both.

-When you ask me to come over to your house to hang out as our first date: the answer is No.

-When we’re in the initial phase of dating, please don’t tell me you need to reprimand me for something. That just doesn’t sit well with me. Never mind–in fact, never reprimand me. I am not a child.

-When you make me take a quiz to gauge our compatibility, I can tell you immediately the answer is we aren’t.

Rude Awakening

In the least provocative way possible (I hope), I very publicly disclosed I was raped when I was 18. I texted a friend to let her know the post had moved from contemplation to completion. And I held my breath. You’d think I’d exhale in relief that I had unburdened in such grand fashion (you know me, I’m nothing if not flashy!). But I sat there holding my breath as I watched the number of page views slowly tick up with each hour. I waited for feedback. If a writer posts about an uncomfortable topic that no one wants to hear, can anyone hear that tree fall in the forest?

I had worked through most of the pain and shame and embarrassment and anger through the years with the support of skilled therapists and amazing loved ones. For that journey I am so grateful. For these Sherpas who have supported me along my trek, I am so grateful. Some moments they held all my baggage, some moments they helped me shift the weight of it, some moments they reminded me to put it down. Other times they just guided me along the way as I learned how to travel holding my own baggage. Through it all, they’ve taught me to pack lighter.

My Sherpas gathered around me once again as my blog post was sent out to the universe through emails, social media, and the blogosphere. The kindness, the support, the love–it warms me and buoys me–thank you. Comments, emails, texts came in. A dialogue began so I started thinking, and you know how dangerous that gets. I knew why I wrote that piece and why I felt compelled to publish it–public solidarity and shining the spotlight under the bed to see what this monster really looks like. It was not only therapeutic for me, but necessary for our sons and daughters.

I felt compelled to write and share. I HAD to put a face to it, to them, to us, because it is easier to hurt or disrespect someone if you have objectified a person. I will not be objectified. My daughter will not be objectified. Your daughter will not be objectified.

When we depersonalize someone, we make him or her an “other,” and this person is then different and less than me/us. As humans, we group people easily into In Groups and Out Groups. People not like us in some fashion fall into the Out Group. They are an Other. We do this every day. We easily separate sports teams with team colors and Mascots. I know who to scream at and hurl “Yo Mommas” at across the stadium. In college, Greek letters are worn and you know where you stood in the social pecking order and who to fight and who to make fun of. We separate and judge mothers by what they wear–are those Stay At Home Mom Jeans or Work Outside of the Home Mom Pants? We do this multiple times every day, but it’s a slippery slope of judging someone, to being unkind, to not respecting boundaries. It is easy to do when we don’t view the person as a human being, but instead as an object or statistic, or an Other.

On this theoretical continuum, when you see a Me Too, someone similar, someone just like you, someone you can relate to, it becomes more difficult to hurt that person. When I feel familiar to you, it’s not as easy to hurt me or make fun of me or disrespect me. I am then a human being like you, not an Other, not less than. You can understand and possibly empathize with me. If I am an equal, it makes it harder to dismiss me or wield power over me.

So in all this thinking of disconnecting and separating from people, and of WHY I felt so compelled to share at this point in my life, I kept coming back to feeling the need to show the world the faces and stories of the victims. To bridge the disconnect of a name in a news story. To humanize the issue. To show who is violated daily, what kinds of people are assaulted every hour. To demonstrate to the world that they are people like you and me. Me. It was me. And I realized making this connection for people was so important to me because I wanted outrage.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate and need the support in my life. But I see now that I am greedy and want more than support. I want outrage. I am someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone’s aunt, someone’s friend, someone’s room parent, someone’s therapist, someone’s neighbor, someone’s running partner. I want you to feel so uncomfortable you have no choice but to look at these people in your lives, to look at yourself and your children, your parents, your friends, and realize there but for the grace of God go I. And realize also, in fact, many of these people in your lives have been victimized (one in six–go ahead and let that sink in as you think of all the women in your lives). We need to feel outraged enough to change this rape culture we live in.

It is only in this rude awakening that change occurs. So I suppose my disclosure wasn’t entirely about me, and what happened to me. But it’s about what happens to us. Because we are all connected to those we hurt, and those who feel hurt. So we need to take good care of each other, because that “other” is really us. And we all matter. Me Too. And You Too.

Me Too

I have been following the Steubenville rape case and verdicts, and the aftermath–how the media has covered it all, how other teens have threatened Jane Doe, how other brave rape survivors have spoken out, how parents have discussed raising kind and respectful children so that other women are not victimized. I try to follow all the news reports when a woman is raped or sexually assaulted. I was a journalism major in college and wrote a research paper about how the media consistently reports in such a way that blames the victim. This topic has been important to me for a very long time.

Ever since one snowy winter night when I thought it was my fault.

There have been countless women much braver than I could ever be who have helped me find my strength. They’ve done this by courageously sharing their stories. Two of these women have written beautiful and moving essays and blog posts that have really struck a chord.

Kim Simon had written My Son & Steubenville that quickly went viral. Her recent letter to Jane Doe is just as important and moving. You must read the letter to Jane Doe now before reading the rest of this post. I can only write this story and continue forward in my life after being touched by her beauty and courage. And you can only understand this post after reading hers. Please, please read it now.

As is usually the case when I read these acts of courage, my heart tugged a bit, there was a small pit in my stomach, and my eyes teared up when I read the letter to Jane Doe. As each year goes by, as each injustice is publicized, as each woman is disrespected and violated, and society allows it or permits it, as each woman becomes a statistic, I get ever so slightly closer to saying publicly Me Too. I have said Me Too to trusted individuals in private. I have done this more and more through the years, as less and less shame consumed me. I worked through it in therapy. When I read these posts, I thought, “Me too. I am brave.”

But see, I have always wished I was braver. Because I firmly believe one vital and critical way we change the culture that allows these assaults to occur is if people know how many Me Too’s there are. And what we look like. We are mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, friends, teachers. Us Too.

 As I am now a parent to a girl and a boy, I want to be braver. For them. For the world they will navigate. For me. Yet I understand the need for discretion of what one discloses publicly and forever on these interwebs. I also realize that my reluctance and fear of not declaring Me Too publicly, in solidarity, is about shame. But see, it wasn’t my fault. And that’s the point of the letter to Jane Doe–public solidarity to reinforce this is not the victim’s fault. To link arms publicly, to show strength and support in numbers. If I truly believe this wasn’t my fault and it says nothing about the character of my being, then what is the issue with disclosing Me Too?

So here I am to say I am a Me Too. I am telling you now because we can only begin to raise kind and respectful children by understanding the magnitude of this problem–that there are more Me Too’s than you can possibly imagine. I am telling you this now to show thousands of other women that there is no shame, that there is nothing so inherently horrific about us that we deserved this. I am telling you this now to show thousands of women that we can survive and thrive. I am telling you this now because you know many Me Too’s, and just didn’t realize it.

I was a wild one, a fun one. My freshman year, a particular fraternity boy wanted me. So much so that he followed me everywhere and noted who I talked to, and when, and where. He had his friends follow me as well. He stalked me. But I didn’t know it then. He walked up to me at a bar. He bought shots and beer. I was 18. I was wild. I was fun. He was cute. Of course I drank with him. We walked back to his place. I was very, very drunk. This was not unusual. I kissed him. And passed out. I woke up in time to say no. Please, no. He ignored me. I waited until I was sure he was asleep before creeping out of his apartment. It was a very long night, staring at the ceiling, not daring to move, praying he was a deep sleeper. I was so sure it was my fault and that I asked for this to happen, that I left my phone number in a note apologizing for leaving in the middle of the night. I apologized for leaving after he raped me. I ran back to my dorm and woke up my best friend and cried. She thought I was crying because I left the earrings I borrowed from her at his place. I will never forget those dainty gold hoop earrings. He stalked me for the remainder of that school year, but he kept those earrings.

I thought it was my fault. Because I liked kissing boys. I liked to drink. I liked to have fun. I went home with him. I drank the drinks he bought me. It took me a very long time to understand it was not my fault. It took even longer to believe that I did not deserve that.

I so inherently believed it was my fault that I didn’t even know what had happened—I thought I was just a drunk slut. Three years after the rape and after he graduated, I happened to be in his old apartment–the first time I had been in there since the assault. I suddenly became consumed by panic. I couldn’t breathe, I was sweating. I couldn’t see. My heart was pounding. I ran down three flights of stairs and knelt down outside. When I was outside and saw the sunlight, it hit me. I had been raped. Up to that moment I had no idea. For years I kept it a dark, humiliating secret. Then for many more years, only a handful of people knew.

I thought I had gotten to the point of truly believing it was not my fault. When I read these essays however, I realized I was afraid of standing arm in arm, in public solidarity as a Me Too because I still held some shame close to my heart.

I have learned we can be scared and brave. So I am feeling scared and brave sharing my story right now because I don’t want to feel the sadness every time I read about a sexual assault. I want to do something about it so we don’t have to read about this anymore because we have learned to respect each other. I want to do something to change the world we live in so that we don’t feel ashamed for something that was not our fault. I want to do something to teach my children that an event does not define us, but how we choose to respond to it does. This is the first step to doing these things. Me Too.   I am putting down the shame so my hands are free to link to other women. Me Too. I am linking arms and saying Me Too.

I Did It My Way…

This past weekend I was allowed to do a trial run after a strict 20 day moratorium on any running. I have been rehabbing a pinched nerve that brought tears streaming down my face (literally) when I ran. (I also could not run with the concussion) This temporary ban on running made me crawl out of my skin. Being compliant with my physical therapist’s orders was really hard. But I tried to focus on long term goals and being pain-free completely. It pained me, however, to do what I was told. I went out for my run so nervous–I prayed for a good run. I focused on the sun and wind and chill in the air. I was so grateful to be outside. I managed a short, slow run with no pain. And I thought “Wow, look at what compliance does!! It works!! Go figure!”

I’m sort of a stubborn, headstrong person with my own ideas and ways of doing things. I have always done things my way. I don’t follow protocols or expectations well. Take running for example–through time I managed to make my long runs 13 miles by doing it my way. I didn’t follow any of the advice trainers or magazines or real runners gave me. I don’t do any hill work. I don’t increase my mileage by 10%. I don’t do fartlek drills. I just went out and ran in a way that resonated with me, that felt right to me. And I pushed through aches and pains while ignoring all the sound advice that others follow.

So it got me thinking–where is the balance between compliance and doing things your own way? I would never have gotten to where I am with running if I followed all that advice. I got here by doing it my way. But I also would not be running today if I did not comply with my physical therapist’s orders. When do I stop being stubborn and start listening to the advice of others? I chuckled that it has taken me almost 40 years to finally be compliant.

And then it occurred to me that my sweet daughter is just like me in this way also, which you know makes parenting her so hard. She isn’t necessarily non-compliant. But rather, she needs to do things her own way, to learn how to do things, and to learn what doesn’t work. She needs to go through the process of her own trial and error to learn the lesson.

You’ve read that I always wanted to save her from herself. I wanted her to bypass this process so she wouldn’t have to feel the hurts when her way of doing things results in failures and pain. Then I got to the point where I accepted with resignation that she will have to go through these mistakes on her terms. Today I realized I was still wrong. All my failures and stumbles through doing things my way have in fact been glorious and fabulous and intense. They haven’t been mistakes after all. They’ve been wonderful moments of learning and loving and living that make up the fabric of my being and my life. I don’t want to take that experience away from my daughter.

Some Assembly Required

A sure sign of success of a divorced woman: Assembling not one, but TWO shelving systems. In under an hour. All by myself. Without breaking any pieces. And not one, but BOTH of them are assembled CORRECTLY. And not to brag or anything, but both kids were running around like crack addicts in withdrawal all the while. And I didn’t even lose a screw. Or my mind. Ha! Really, who needs a husband around anyway when I can follow diagrams??

The first year post-divorce was arguably one of the worst years of my life for many reasons. Surviving it was truly empowering. I learned to do many things I didn’t ever want to do (like replacing a toilet), and things that never occurred to me to do (like making sure the sump pump really works). I learned what to do with shrubbery, mulch, and grass; propane tanks, hacksaws, and wildlife in the house. I laid down insulation in my attic with my own hands (gloved hands–lesson learned). I took down trees and power washed everything in sight. I stained my deck, fenced off a vegetable garden (never mind that nothing grew but weeds), climbed onto my roof and cleaned out gutters–and didn’t fall off.

I did all these things and more, including making sure both my children are still alive and well. But something about today’s shelving assembly felt so satisfying. I have put together a lot of Ikea furniture in my life, but none of them well–hello, Billy Bookcase. I ruined a lot of Billy’s (and I’m proud to say I never even dated a Billy). The kids’ craft table and chairs…well, let’s just say that I blame the kids for a lot of things–misshapen cut-out cookies, messy homes and uneven, warped furniture pieces, among other things. The craft table and chairs: if anyone asks, totally all their fault.

But I didn’t need to blame anyone today. I did it. “All by myself!” as my daughter loves to say with pride. And I was so proud. I guess there really is never anyone to blame after all. I’ve learned to rely on myself, and upon doing so, taken responsibility for myself and all my actions and decisions. It’s always been about me–somehow, whenever anything good or bad occurs in my life, I happen to be right there! Successes and failures–all mine. I can take pride in my accomplishments, and be kind and forgiving to myself with my failures. I can learn from both.

But take heed–When you come over, I wouldn’t advise sitting on the Adirondack chairs in the backyard. Just sayin’.

This Is Your Brain on Misinformation

I wanted to follow up with more thoughts and lessons learned from my brain injury that I think are really important for all of us to be aware of.

First, you need to know I’m not competent. Granted, on a good day I’m not so competent, but compound that with a brain injury, and truly I’m a poseur. When people told me a concussion was serious, or urged me to see a doctor or take care of myself, I would nod compliantly. And that would be that. I couldn’t think straight, if at all. I couldn’t process what to do with that information and take appropriate actions then. Add the fact that it was very difficult to find clinicians to treat this, and we have someone walking around for three weeks like a glorified zombie. Lesson for everyone: force the matter. Be bossy and do whatever it takes to get your loved one or friend to a doctor’s appointment. A brain-injured person is not competent and does not make good judgments. Also, I knew I had a concussion the second it happened, but I literally could not find the word “concussion” to say out loud for three days. I kept trying to tell someone, but my brain could not label the concept. If someone tells you they hit their head, take them to get tested immediately–don’t wait until symptoms worsen.

Second, anyone can get a concussion from pretty much anything. I hit my head into a soft net. A woman bumped her head on a kitchen cabinet. My son fell off his horse last year and didn’t even hit his head–but the sudden stop of forward momentum shook his little brain around. You need to know it doesn’t require a direct blow to the head.

Third, symptoms and duration differ with everyone–it’s a very individualized experience. My son had a headache and grogginess for a couple days. Kitchen Cabinet Woman had symptoms worse than mine.

Fourth, speaking of symptoms…people assume if there are few symptoms, no brain bleed, or no loss of consciousness, then the concussion is not as serious. This myth is absolutely incorrect. Very significant cognitive deficits can occur with a normal brain scan (it doesn’t show the cellular damage) and no loss of consiousness.

Fifth, speaking of myths…I was always told you shouldn’t let someone fall asleep after a head injury. Wrong again! Rest and sleep really help in the recovery process. Click here for more myths. Read them all!

Sixth, speaking of recovery…As Claire Lenker, LCSW, CCM, Assistant Professor and Training Director at University of Alabama at Birmingham, and Social Worker Extraordinaire, noted in the previous post’s comment section–there is standard of care for concussions. However, it’s not widely disseminated, even to medical professionals. She’s absolutely right: First and foremost you need to rest. That means NO physical activity at all–nothing that can increase your heart rate. Cognitive rest is needed. This means no reading, problem solving, processing thoughts, computer use, watching TV, texting (which requires hand/eye coordination), video games. Do not use your brain. This is very hard to do. See a professional who uses standardized cognitive tests to gauge progress at regular intervals. Hydrate. Hydrate. Eat more omega-3s and omega-6s. Hydrate more. Sleep as much as you possibly can. When cleared to gradually resume activity, do so slowly and cautiously. If symptoms return at all, cease and desist. Rest for a full 24 hours, and start over at step one. This is not the medical advice I received initially, which is why I suffered for longer than necessary.

What happens if you don’t follow all this sage advice? Serious cognitive, physical, and mood symptoms can last for months–six months or more. And if you hit your head again before you’ve fully recovered, that subsequent damage could be permanent. Please, be kind to your brain. Be knowledgeable and advocate for the brains of our friends and children.