Moving Meltdown

“Where’s your bathroom?”

 

Without waiting for an answer, the coarse Dominican mover pushed past me, clomping into the apartment.

 

“You’ll have to wait.  Your partner’s still in there,” I said sourly, crossing my arms.  Fifty minutes late, and the first thing they do is use my bathroom?  They’d better not count this as moving time – if they went over an hour I’d have to pay the $350 extortion fee they charged!

 

My grumpiness wasn’t entirely their fault.  I was on edge; it was my last day in the city.  And I wasn’t just wrapping up loose ends – I still hadn’t tied half of the things that needed to be done.  The list went on and on.  I didn’t have one spare second before my flight that evening. 

 

Poor planning – it creeps up on you.  Suddenly, at the last minute there are a hundred things to do you haven’t even thought of.  But if everything went smoothly, I’d have enough time.  If…

 

Waiting for the movers to get to the apartment my mind churned.  Blame it on inflexibility but it really irks me when people are late – it’s disrespectful, unprofessional, and downright rude. It’s kind of like saying: my time is more valuable than yours – you should run on my schedule because I have more important things going on.  With a concerted effort I pulled myself up short.  Be reasonable, I sternly told myself; it wasn’t the movers’ fault I planned such a tight schedule.

 

When the disheveled, tobacco-stained workmen arrived late I managed to bite my tongue.

 

When they walked in and took back-to-back bathroom breaks, I gritted my teeth – yelling at them wouldn’t speed anything up.  Then they started moving my things.

 

“Be careful with that!” I said again and again; as I watched the movers carelessly toss my possessions into huge wheeled-containers to move into the elevator.  Each time the main mover told me not to worry in his thick Dominican accent.  Clearly not listening, he seemed to get increasingly careless by the minute.  Cringing, I watched helplessly as his gloved hands crumpled my parchment Danish floor lamp.

 

As the elevator doors shut, I gave the apartment one last once-over for things to put in storage, grabbed my curtains, and raced down the stairs.  We needed to get over to the storage facility as quickly as possible – I didn’t want to pay them for another hour!

 

I ran up to their truck.  They were still packing everything into the back but the cramped cab looked as if it would barely hold the three burly men.  Where was I going to sit?  “When are we leaving?  Where should I sit?”  I asked, still worried about the time.

 

The shorter balding man I took to be the leader gave me an annoyed glance and replied in a surly voice. “We’re not taking you there.”

 

This caught me completely off guard.  The storage facility had assured me the movers would take me; the moving company had backed them up.  I had counted on the ride – I hadn’t even written the storage place’s address down, let alone directions there.  “But … but how am I going to there?  They told me you were giving me a ride…” I

 

“Who told you that?” the man sneered condescendingly.

 

 “The guy from your company promised you would.  How am I supposed to get there when you do?  I don’t even have the address!” 

 

“You can take a taxi or the subway to XXXX.  Do whatever you want but we can’t take you,” he shrugged me off, turning back to the truck.

 

With that my helplessness vanished.  Anger replaced it – they were taking advantage of me. “Your company promised you’d give me a ride.  You’re late, rude, and now you won’t even keep your word?”

 

“Hey lady, I don’t know what your problem is but we aren’t a taxi service,” with that he pointedly turned back to the boxes.

 

Something inside me flipped.  Shaking, I exploded into an unthinking ball of fury. “I can’t believe you are acting like this! F you!  F you guys.  You are a bunch of F-ing A-holes!!!”

 

“Nobody has ever talked to me like that before you little B….”

 

I searched for the worst thing I could possibly say.  “I … I … I hope your mother dies!”  With that I turned my heel and stalked toward the subway.

 

I had walked the route hundreds of times but with the thick smog of anger clouding my brain I took a wrong turn.  Blocks out of my way enough of the rage had dissipated for me to realize my mistake.  Figuring out where I was and how to get to the subway required me to use my mind and as my brain started working the towering inferno of anger was gone leaving behind a few smoldering embers.  Standing waiting for the train I realized the sheer stupidity of my outburst.

 

The movers had all of my things in their truck.  If they wanted to, they could damage or destroy any or all of my things, they could take as long as they wanted, or worse yet just never deliver my things….  I was at their whim.  I had to call the storage company and tell them my side of the story.

 

There wasn’t much reception underground, but I figured the sooner I called the better. Halfway through telling the man on the other end the story reception cut out.  Moments later my train arrived – I’d call back when I got to the moving place. 

 

When the train pulled into the station, I had a message.  It was the moving company.  The manager was convinced I had hung up on him and was furious with me.  When I called back he didn’t calm down.  He didn’t want anything to do with me. 

 

It took a lot of work but the manager had convinced the movers to take my things to the storage facility and drop them off at the dock.  I would have to figure out how to get them up to my storage locker on the fifth floor myself.

 

When I tried to tell my side of the story and plead my case, the man told me I was lucky he managed to get them to take my things there and slammed the phone down.

 

Fighting tears back I reached the storage facility.  The man at the front desk took one look at my red eyes and trembling lip, and in the most compassionate voice possible asked me what was wrong.

 

In the face of opposition it is easy to keep up a brave front.  If there is something to struggle against or focus on then holding off the tears comes almost second nature.  But warmth, caring, and understanding open the floodgates.  In a mater of moments tears were streaming down my cheeks and I was trying to choke out my side of the story.

 

I had overreacted but they had been late and rude and unprofessional.  I was upset.  Now the company was leaving my things on the loading dock!

 

Everything would be okay the man assured me.  He would take care of everything.  Movers could be rude – it was unprofessional to be late.  It was even worse to go back on your word. He would make sure the movers finished the job.  That is what they were being paid for – it would look bad for the company if they didn’t.  With that he phoned the moving company.

 

The movers arrived; finished the job, and I apologized for my behavior.  I am extremely thankful that that wonderful man was there to smooth everything over, but I’m not sure what would have happened if he hadn’t been.

 

*  *  *

 

Irrational, uncontrollable fits of rage – head injury “episodes” as I refer to them – are one of the most terrifying aspects of brain injury.  It feels as though you are swept away in the grip of your emotions.  While they hold you in their grip you are powerless to act of your own volition.  You watch yourself say terrible things that you would never think to utter of your own accord.

 

Heightened emotions, emotional liability with turn on a dime mood swings, inappropriate language, and problems with anger are common aspects of brain injury.   Closer to the injury the survivor may not even be aware he is demonstrating this behavior, but it is important to be aware that these are merely aspects of the injury, and not the survivor.  The best thing to do is to redirect the survivor’s attention, remain supportive, and above all not to take anything the survivor says in their outburst to heart.

 

Thankfully for me these episodes happen with less and less frequency.  I have not experienced an episode of that magnitude for years but they are never good.  The usual suspects – heightened stress and lack of sleep are contributing factors but the outbursts are unfortunately quite unpredictable. 

 

By all means try and keep on a regular schedule, get enough sleep, do what you can to lead a stress-free life, and stay away from overwhelming situations.  However, I know all too well that this is not always possible.  In retrospect, the majority of my episodes happen when I feel overloaded, as if I have to do everything alone – fight for myself.  Having a strong support system is essential.  Be it friends, family, brain injury support groups, or other organizations, having people in your life who understand, can help redirect and diffuse situations like this in your life may help prevent a potential next one…

 

 

 

 

 

"Be Kind for Everyone You Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle" (W 4th part II)

I wish that I were sensitive enough to have decided to change my inattentive ways all on my own, but alas this is not the case.  I’m thick – I need to be hit over the head (no pun intended) before I get the message.  And the jarring reminder I got was exactly the wakeup call I needed….

 

Waiting for the train, I leaned against one of the faded hunter green pillars, my nose buried in the Elephant Vanishes.   Every page or so I would look up to peer into the cavernous black tunnel, straining my eyes for the faintest hint of headlights, or breath of air from an approaching train.  No luck.  Cursing the MTA, I would go back to trying to concentrate on my book.

 

After fifteen minutes a slurred bellow interrupted my reverie, “Geeeve me ah dolla foh shum foood.”

Startled, I jerked up from the book to see a massive figure sporting a worn leather jacket, over what looked like a bundle of grimy, torn clothing. The formidable man lumbered towards me, thick-fingered hand outstretched.  From fifteen feet, his stench was bad and it seemed to get exponentially worse with each step.  As he drew near, the rank smell of whiskey and body odor made me take an involuntary step back.

 “Sorry,” I shrugged my shoulders;  “I don’t have a job right now.”

Even if I’d had money, I wouldn’t have given it to him.  I have a strict policy against giving beggars money (musicians and artists are a different story).  As often as not your dollar won’t be going towards food, and I have no desire to encourage drug use.  I will however, always give them food if I have it, and because of this I try and carry fruit or nutritional bars with me.  If they turn down the food – you can be pretty sure they didn’t need money to fill their stomachs.  But today I just didn’t have any food with me.

 “Yeah, but yoush gotsh food, yoush gots a home, yoush don gotsh problems.”

Disgusted, and increasingly annoyed, I looked pointedly away.  I was done listening.

“All high and mighty and can’t even spare a dollar on Martin Luther King Day?  B*tch.  People like you can’t even understand what problems are….”  Volume and ranting increasing as he stumbled away, several other commuters threw glances in his direction. 

I am beyond thankful that he didn't stop to argue, for his sake as much as mine.  As he denounced me for having an easy life, and being selfish, myopic, and self-absorbed, I could feel my gorge rising.  My fingernails bit into my palms, as I focused on the pain fighting to keep my mind free from the all-consuming grip of building tide of TBI-driven rage.   Telling me I didn't know what problems were, how dare he?  

Were it not for the rising tide of anger then I would have seen the obvious danger; he was male, twice my size, uninsured, and mentally unbalanced (at the bare minimum).  I should have been able to see the awful circumstance he was in for what it was and felt compassion, pity, or perhaps disgust, rather than rage.  However my anger and outrage corroded all reason, rationality, sense, or thought of self-preservation.   If the man had stayed, and engaged me in a confrontation, rather than ignoring the clearly intoxicated bum, I would have stepped up to the plate and given him a piece of my mind.  

Happily the train came within a minute, just in the nick of time.  I reflexively stepped into the car, and with the change of settings the anger and outrage dissolved.  The man probably wasn't in a condition to think of anyone's troubles but his own.   Though assumptions and prejudgments are one of my pet peeves I have to remind myself to "be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," and teach rather than react.

Thankfully today my flashes of rage aren’t as intense, and I have come light years in controlling them, but I do still work to manage living with anger and heightened emotions.  As with most TBI residuals, the doctors’ advice is to stay well rested, keep a regular schedule; avoid stress – the usual suspects.  Unfortunately, these things are not always feasible, and even when they are; anger flashes can rear their ugly head.

My best advice for times of agitation, (I wish I had known years ago) is to walk away and get yourself out of the situation if you possibly can – change scenery, change topics, but it is paramount to think about something, anything else.  Often this can be all but impossible for me to do alone because perseveration almost always goes hand in hand with my rage and traps me there.  

This is why it’s imperative to talk to your friends and family about how to handle these situations, for your sake as much as for theirs. Survivors are generally suggestible so the best thing to do is to redirect their attention to another topic, change the surroundings, and the agitation will disappear.   It's almost frightening how well this trick work, and it can be unsettling to onlookers to see such an abrupt change.  For me though, it is a welcome release from the clutches of TBI. 

I would love to hear your stories about similar situations, and struggles with heightened emotions.  Any input on  tactics for coping with anger flashes would be fantastic too.   I always say, it never hurts to have more TBI-fighting weapons in your arsenal.

The Signature Injury of the Iraq War

Traumatic Brain Injury is the signature injury of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.  According to Dr. Robert Van Boven's article Dealing with PTSD, in the Washington Times up to 320,000 soldiers have already sustained TBI, in Iraq alone.

With these staggering numbers it stands to reason that Veterans Affairs (VA) would pour money into the Central Texas Veteran's Health Care System, and especially Dr. Van Boven's Brain Imaging and Recovering Laboratory, that is working to "test and introduce new effective methods to help TBI survivors regain higher cognitive abilities."

http://www.centraltexas.va.gov/services/BIRL.asp 

Tragically, instead of bolstering this excellent program, because of some bad eggs in management, the VA is currently considering closing the program entirely.  This closure would be unconscionable.  Not only would closing this important clinic harm the veterans who have suffered terribly defending this country, but is also a blow to all TBI survivors by slowing advancements in methods of recovery.  

Still worse it harms society as a whole. Recovery from TBI is a life-long process.  Even with the best medical care, long term consequences include impaired social skills, dementia, inability to maintain relationships, unemployment, and aggressive behavior.  My anger flashes frighten me; the thought of experienced marksmen with brain injuries who are unable to afford cognitive therapy is petrifying.

If enough people contact the government, then hopefully we can save this program, or better still encourage VA to put more money into this important program.  

http://veterans.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?page=committee_members

http://veterans.house.gov/

I would love to hear your opinion on this situation, ideas to help, or any other questions or comments you might have.