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I had just been told I had suffered a mild traumatic brain injury, but even in my brain-damaged state, the words “mild” and “traumatic” seemed contradictory. If my injury was mild, why couldn’t I return to my job and resume my former life?
Dogs never give up on us, even after we have given up on ourselves. They accept us as we are, love us without conditions, and do not cast judgments.
No one is ever thought to be a fool by keeping quiet.
My graduate diploma in HR had not prepared me for any such incidents, so I made things up as I went along. That was the fun part of my new job.
and I discovered the line between sadness and anger was a flimsy one.
I bet the angriest people of all work in jobs like mine that require regular, constant, unrelenting contact with other people.
There was both good and bad in having an injury, the effects of which weren’t discernible to anyone else. I had done such a thorough job of disguising the signs of my brain damage, I had managed to fool the world. That disguise had given me a fellowship, a career, a few friends, and a relationship. The downside was that those closest to me often refused to acknowledge there was anything wrong. My head injury solicited zero sympathy, because no one could see the ways I struggled, the ways I’d changed. It was my word versus their observations.
Once you convince yourself you’ll be dead by Christmas, the idea of another few years of life can take some getting used to.