Hanging Up My Gloves

I’m going to talk about myself for a minute here and it’s going to be all over the place. A few years ago I broke the top two vertebra in my neck and suffered my seventh and hopefully final concussion during a self-defense demonstration at work. That incident ended my career as a Krav Maga instructor. It also left me damaged. Among other things, I’ve lived with a constant headache for four years.

Up until that night, I had little problem focusing on my writing. In fact, I had so many stories busting out of my brain, I couldn’t keep up with them. I’d write for hours until the day was used up. Now I feel like a piece of paper crumpled up too many times. No matter how many times I smooth it, there will never be a clean surface to work with.

Chronic traumatic encephalopathy is a pretty big possibility for me. Scary name isn’t it?

“Dementia pugilistica (DP), also called chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), chronic boxer’s encephalopathy, traumatic boxer’s encephalopathy, boxer’s dementia, and punch-drunk syndrome (‘punchy’), is a neurological disorder which may affect career boxers, wrestlers, mixed martial artists, and football players who receive multiple dazing blows to the head. Dementia pugilistica, the severe form of chronic traumatic brain injury, commonly manifests as declining mental and physical abilities such as dementia and parkinsonism.”

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the future. It’s filled with images of Chris and I senile on the front porch hucking pinecones at the neighbor’s kids. I’m worried. Worried about losing my sanity. But worse, I’m worried about losing my ability to care for Chris.

Yesterday, I started an argument with him for no real good reason. I’m finding myself angry and antagonistic more times than I’d like to admit. We stood in a park, because I’d turned the car around – yes I was driving once again, dang it, I hate to drive on the highway – trying to talk it out. I wanted to go home. He wanted to go to the shipyards. I wanted him to admit we’d gotten out of the house too late to avoid traffic. He wanted me to admit I’d never mentioned what time we needed to leave. I wanted him to be normal for once and he wanted me to stop being like him.

We made up, went to the shipyards, and all is well, but this morning we talked about a term I’ve been seeing thrown around lately. Secondary PTSD. There aren’t many reports, and it is not recognized as a real issue in the medical community. I don’t personally think I’ve changed since we got together, but he had a whole list of things he says I do now that I never did before - including not wanting to leave the house or be in crowds. I’m jumpy, I can’t stand noise, and my temper is as short as I am. He says I’ve become a mirror of his symptoms.

I used to have an outlet for stress. As cold and calculating in the ring as I was, I fought and my stress melted. But having been told by doctors I’m lucky to be as high functioning as I am, I know I can’t trade blows anymore - which is why I think I’ve shifted gears a little. It’s not so much that I don’t want to leave the house, I just don’t want to deal with what it might bring. I’m angry because I can’t do what I love ever again. I don’t like crowds because I doubt my ability to defend myself since the injuries. I’m jumpy because I’m trying to predict every possible stressor.

He tells me, and anyone who will listen, that I saved his life, that I’m the only reason he has to live.  My point?  Rambling as it may seem, my point is we all have our cross to bear. We cannot stuff our own feelings or our own problems to solely focus on our loved one. As much as I strive to support Chris, I must also give myself permission to lean on him. My leaning on him forces him to dig deep, look past what he’s got going on to focus on another. I have to give him permission to hold me up and as a result let him know I trust that he can.