“We may not be responsible for the world that created our minds, but we can take responsibility for the mind with which we create our world.”
― Gabor Maté
The deep cushiony leather chair is very comfortable. It’s just that I’m not very comfortable sitting in it. Staring out the window beside me, I notice the vibrancy of the forest outside, a world that I no longer feel part of. I’m stuck in this whole other hazy dimension. This thick fog that just never lifts. Unable to run away anymore. In my own personal purgatory. Motionless.
My psychologist breaks the silence of my vacant gaze as she reaches out to hand me a pen and some paper. I have come to see her in a desperate attempt to get some help dealing with the fact that my broken brain no longer allows me to ride and race my bike. And without that, to be honest, I don’t really know how to continue to exist anymore. She asks me to list the past traumas in my life so far. My top 5. Or more. Whatever comes up she says. I don’t really get it. What does such a list have to do with my concussion? But I don’t have the energy to reason or argue with her. All that my bruised and battered cerebrum can do is follow her instructions. I start writing. As I gently lay my pen to rest, my distorted focus lands on the dust particles dancing in the bright early winter sun beaming on the wall behind her. The rest of the universe seems to be business as usual. The sun still shines like it always has. Why can’t it brighten my days like it used to? Even these gyrating specks of dust seem more cheerful than I am in this moment.