Showing up.

I had anxiety all morning about heading to therapy yesterday. A recommendation that had been made to me not once or twice, but for the last two years from various people. After several months of denial and procrastination - and some consistent nudging from my family and friends - I made an appointment. Walking in, the waiting room was filled with sounds of ocean waves. 

Ahhh there’s the universe, again, showing out for me. 

And just like every trip I take to the ocean, I knew I needed to be there.

I knew I waited two years too long to be there. 

“What issues would you like to address during therapy?”

It took me no time at all to list them out:

1) The unexpected loss of my 23-year playing career; my identity
2) Continued, daily issues of post-concussion symptoms
3) How to tell the entire story of my life post-June 14, 2016 and why sharing it matters
And last but not least, if you really know me well, I felt this was as good a time as ever to get this part addressed, too: 4) "Puking phobia” (LOL)

It took me two years to get to this point: walking in the door of a stranger's office vulnerable enough to say, "Help me." This isn't something my friends can fix with a phone call. It's not something my family can fix with hugs and love. This is something - I am something - I need to fix. I need the attention and help of someone objective, someone qualified and someone so far removed they don't even know what "runners in scoring position" means, to help me move forward. 

It took me two years to find the courage to show up. 

And walking through that door felt just like walking into the ocean.

Calming.

Freeing. 

And therapeutic. 

"Better"

“How’s your head?” 

My least favorite question to answer since June of 2016.

It still hurts. 

Every day. 

Every day my brain reminds me that it’s not quite right. 

That it hasn’t gone back to “normal.” 

That it probably never will to some extent. 

But people don't want to hear that. 

People don’t want to hear your struggle. Everyone struggles. There's people who have it worse. 

But that does not mean your pain is not real. That does not mean your pain does not matter. 

‘Just try not to sound like you’re complaining,’ I tell myself every time I’m forced to answer that dreadful question. 

“It’s okay,” is the safest answer that comes out of my mouth. I always manage to say it with a smile, you know, to trick ‘em.

Those who know me read right through the lie. 

Those who don’t at least get the idea that we don’t have to go any further. 

“Glad you’re doing better,” they’ll say.

Ahhh yes, “better.”

Let’s analyze “better,” shall we?

Did I work out this morning? If so, I’ll probably have a headache by 7am. 

Did I sprint, elevate my heart rate too high or put my head below my chest/butt like a burpee? If so, that headache will last until I fall asleep. 

Sleep – the only true recovery for concussions and post-concussion symptoms.

Did I drive too far?

Listen to music too loud?

Read too much?

Did too many people try and talk to me at once? 

Have I stared at my computer for too long? 

My phone too long?

The TV too long? 

Did I focus during a conversation too hard?

Did I happen to do one or more of these in the same day…? 

*grabs an ice pack, shuts off all the lights and sounds, pulls out my emergency pill bottle, goes to sleep at 7pm two and a half years after I hit the fence.

Ahhh yes, “better” they say to me, as if walking, talking and smiling means people are pain-free. 

“Adjusting” I say to myself, as I continue working toward acceptance in my new “normal.”