How did I end up here? I remember waking up in a stupor, unaware of person, place or time, but I’d been down that path many times before. So why this time, why now? Why am I living in an assisted living facility and no longer in my apartment? The jokes I made about myself being dumber than a box of rocks are true? I have no personal privacy and am a 37 year-old living with people in their mid-eighties and older. I’m also a chronic TBI survivor with memory loss and post-concussive syndrome. Home alone is a little too B-movie bad.
So here I am. A little beaten, battered, and bruised; but I stayed true to myself in the face of it all. Along the way those 80 and 90 year-old neighbors of mine are some of the kindest, most welcoming people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. They have become family. Their family members have become family members of mine as well. We live a life that cannot be described with mere words. Unless you have a room, you are a visitor here. Period.
I still catch myself grieving for the the person I was, the knowledge, skills, and abilities I lost. But I try not to live in a constant pity-party. Life is. I have hurdles–sometime I clear them, sometimes I obliterate them, other times that crack my shines. But nothing about what is wrong with me is going to kill me, only make things uncomfortable and a little difficult. I got this.
Gov’t Mule phrased is beautifully, enjoy.
So Weak So Strong