Portrait: Samantha
My name is Samantha. When I have to tell someone about my brain injury, I just say ‘I fell down’. My story is long and, quite frankly, traumatising. So I say, ’I had a fall’. I do wish my story was cooler for you. I wish it involved sharks or crazy daredevil stunts.
A simple explanation for a complicated story
When I have to tell someone about my brain injury, I just say ‘I fell down’.My story is long and, quite frankly, traumatising. So, I say, ’I had a fall’. I do wish my story was cooler for you. I wish it involved sharks or crazy daredevil stunts. But, you can’t even see the 48-stitch scar across my head anymore because my hair grew back a while ago. Although I’m glad you can’t see it, sometimes the smallest part of me wishes that you could.
The thing is, even if you could see my scar, that isn’t my brain injury. You’ll never see that. How can you understand or find a connection to something that you’ll never see, right?
The other day, I posted an Instagram story advertising the Hidden Disabilities Sunflower. For those who don’t know, the sunflower is a globally recognised symbol for non-visible disabilities like brain injuries. People can wear sunflower lanyards, bracelets, or pins to indicate that they may need support or simply patience. A friend of mine replied to the story saying, ’We love to see it.’ I almost replied saying, ’No no, actually that’s the whole point, we can’t see it.” Obviously, I didn’t send that because ’we love to see it’ is something we say when we approve of something, and my friend was just being supportive.
Overcoming misjudgment by the public
The worst time in my recovery was when my hair grew back. People automatically assumed I was better, and the worst thing was I thought I should have been too.
I can still feel the looks I got on public transport if I didn’t offer my seat to someone older than me. It didn’t matter if I then had to sit at the station for ten minutes, crying because I didn’t have the strength to walk home. Or, if I tried to walk home, I would have to hold onto every streetlight and sign to stay upright. Isn’t it funny when you can’t remember someone’s face, but you can remember the feeling of their eyes on you? It’s like you can feel the world’s assumption.
To be 20 years old, recovering from a traumatic brain injury from an almost fatal accident, coping with PTSD, and having to deal with other people’s assumptions of you and your behaviour sucks. When other people perceive you as a silly young girl, possibly drunk, it does nothing to aid in recovery.
When you break your leg and you have to wear a cast, people automatically believe you. When you are recovering from or living with a brain injury, you have to prove it.
The invisible battle of having a brain injury
The first time I cried after my accident was the day I went back to university. For four months I was living with friends, my mum sleeping on a bed beside me. I was being looked after 24 hours a day. Those days were some of the best in my life. Sure, I needed supervised showers, but I was surrounded by so much love and peace.
When I felt ready to go back to ’real life’, I didn’t even make it to one class. I walked in and everything hit me all at once: the people, the sound, the light. My excitement all barreled into me, and I couldn’t process any of it. I wanted to say hi to my friends and prove I was all better now, but I couldn’t make even one word come out of my mouth. I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. And when I got home, I wept, because I had a brain injury. Then I had to explain it. To everyone.
I had to relive my accident over and over again. I had to explain why I sometimes lost my speech, why I couldn’t go to the pub at the weekend, why one day I wasn’t functioning and the next I was. But, I looked better, right?
I have had so many moments where I have almost wished that my scar ran right across my forehead, just so people could see it. Moments where people have made me feel small. Moments where people have made me feel like they didn’t believe me, like they didn’t want to. I have held my tongue. I have softened my words. I have made jokes. All for other people to feel okay about my brain injury. Don’t get me wrong, I have also had beautiful moments. Moments with friends, family, and colleagues who require none of that. They just see me for me, my brain injury, and the million other things that make up who I am.
The difference you can make by truly seeing
So, this week, maybe take a moment to reflect. You might connect to someone with a brain injury and not even know it. Maybe this week, check your assumptions and hold a little bit of space for the person walking slowly on the street, the person needing to sit on public transport, or the person who needs a moment to collect their words. It doesn’t matter how old, fit, or healthy they look; save some humility. It could make a big difference to someone’s day and, honestly, someone’s life. Because, as much as we love to see it, sometimes feeling seen is what matters most.