A Memoir of April 30, 2011

Today was the one-year anniversary of my head injury.


And before you go any further, know that this post definitely falls under the definition of a novella. You're welcome to skip down to "The Story," although I hope that you'll stick it out and eventually read the whole thing. It paints a picture, and gives the story some context.



     I haven't blogged in a long-ass time. I could tell you every little detail about why, tell you the excuses that I've already convinced myself are true... blah blah blah. But really, what it comes down to is that I haven't felt really impassioned by anything happening in my life or in the world lately, except for this total and completely selfish thing: my head injury.

Here We Go...

    And so it's stalled my blogging process, because I feel there's a primary responsibility I have to my few readers: to make it freaking interesting! I make my blog something I would want to read, and I'm pretty picky when it comes to what I find compelling in web literature.  I even have names for the types of blogs I can't stand, and strict rules against using them.

The Confessional
  I can't stand the blogs that start off with "I've never talked to anyone about this before" and then make some great abstract illusion to something super personal that's been going on in the brain of the blogger that really doesn't make any sense at all.
The Banal Babbler
  I don't wanna read blogs about how you went to Best Buy yesterday and wandered around for twenty-five minutes, looked at some DVDs, looked at some washing machines, then decided not to buy anything because you really wanted a sandwich from Jimmy John's.
The Sob Story
  These are blogs about how you broke up with your girlfriend, or you suffer from depression, or no one reads your blog, or you had some sort of life crisis, and you *don't know what to do* because you can't get past it. *this part will be important again in a minute
The Misanthrope
  Oh man, they're the worst when they think they have a solution to every single problem ever invented. They are the bitches - they bitch. And moan. And complain and whine about all the things they hate about the world, and everyone, and everything, in it. They're also, for the most part, completely hypocritical. Just like I'm being right now, by ranting and raving about the types of blogs I can't stand.


What I've realized is that I hate all these specific types of blogs because they're all things that I find myself doing. Or wanting to do, because I start a lot of posts that I never publish for fear of rejection. I'm too interested in pleasing the broadest spectrum of readers -  a good strategy when you're trying to raise $20,000+ from strangers you don't know. But at what point does that make me a fake?

I try not to be so self-reflective with my readers, try to hide behind a curtain like a good little blogger does and not drag too much personal stuff into my blog. Transparency, they call it in the media. So the readers can hold me accountable, and trust me to deliver the news that matters.

But I want to create a picture of myself that makes me seem like something that I am beginning to realize, I'm clearly not. Someone cool, confident, clear-headed. Sassy but not bitchy. Clever but not obnoxious. Positive with a hint of sardonicism. Funny with a good heart. Perfect. The perfect blog. The perfect person.

I'm always at war with myself, always playing my own devil's advocate.

"You're good,"the meek little confident side of me squeaks from somewhere hidden deep within.

I've taken the liberty of showing you a magnified version:

"Not good enough," the other more powerful, brooding (insecure) side of me replies.

And so I fight.

Every day is a test of my willpower. A battle, raging in my healing head, against insecurity and self-hatred.


And so it's time. Time for me to finally get all this shit off of my chest about my stupid head injury. I'm breaking every single one of my rules for this post. It's gonna rear its ugly, uncensored head, possibly poisoning the integrity of my entire blog.  But hopefully you're able to look past that and discover, like I have, that sometimes the truth is more valuable than saving face. After all, I'm not a politician, I'm... an actor.  a writer.  a blogger ... ... ...  an artist.  So this post is fucking long, as I've warned you. It's already pretty personal and emotional, and there's plenty more where that came from. It will most likely contain a lot of blabbering, complete with run-on sentences.  It's something I've never shared with anyone. And, at the end of the day, I still don't have an answer for most of the questions that I'll raise - *I just don't know.*


"I don't know. I don't know what to do."

     In light of breaking all my other rules, it's time to create a new one. The phrase above is the phrase that, it should be written in the (Kno(w) Subject bible or something, is strictly forbidden from this point on anywhere on my blog. I say the forbidden phrase a lot in my ...  emotional life, I guess you could call it. I'm ashamed to admit it. I put myself in situations, and when I can't think and reason my way out of them, I forfeit with those fatal words.
     "I give up," is basically what I'm saying. Quitting. Nobody wants to read about a Quitter. Just like no one wants to read The Confessional, The Banal Babbler, the Sob Story or the Misanthrope - unless the author has recovered and learned something valuable to pass along to others. Unless something inspiring has been drawn from the experience. And I guess I'm still waiting for it to happen to me.

The (sob) Story

    
     A year ago today, I was in a very different place than I'm in today. I was in the prime of my physical, mental, and emotional fitness. I didn't have to think about much beyond my grand plans to become a superstar when I moved to New York City. The hardest part of my life was deciding whether I was going to make my big break in the latest Broadway hit, or as the newest-hottest character on Gossip Girl. Shit, maybe I'd do both - I had unlimited energy and time (and would have even more after graduation, of course) to spend radiating tenacity for the rest of my life. After all, I was so sure of who I was and what I was about. And I was going to live my dream.

     On the final Friday of my college career, possibly of my education altogether, depending on whether or not I go to grad school, I was feeling great. Better than great actually, which in retrospect was a fairly typical state of being for me at the time. I was only slightly concerned about one final, my Modern & Contemporary Lit class, which I still needed to read 4 books for. But I had two whole days to knock those out, and I remembered not to count the time I was planning on spending drinking excessively to celebrate my newfound freedom. I didn't really have any other finals, because all of my other classes were dance and singing classes. Oh and my Development of American Musical Theatre class that I was taking pass/fail and currently had an A in.

     I had to wake up early that Friday morning, much earlier than I was used to since my classes began at 11 am every day that semester.  I put on my cutest yet sexiest all-black stretchy clothing, threw together some great-looking makeup, and completed my look with a stretchy black headband with a huge black flower on the side that I knew made me look like a classic flapper-style starlet.  I walked to campus, up the giant hill like I did almost every morning that I wasn't feeling lazy enough to drive my car and park it in the secret spot I had discovered right behind the theatre building. We were going to be the first group to perform, and when I got to the building there were dancers all over the place warming up for the show. Now that I think abut it, it was only my second dance show I've ever been in, my first being back in high school when I danced for a semester with a local studio. I've always loooved dancing, but I'm no great dancer. For the most part I'm still in beginner's classes.

     The show was going great, and I remember it all except for the last moment. It was a showcase for my Musical Theatre Repertory class, so we were doing numbers from musicals such as Oklahoma!, Kiss Me Kate, Chicago, and Hairspray. Since we were doing so many, we decided during our warmup to cut each one a little short. For the finale, during "You Can't Stop the Beat" from Hairspray, one of the guys in the class who also happened to be a gymnast would come through the center of everyone and do a front flip, obviously wowing everyone in the room with a big finish. 

     I've never thought about it before, but now that I do, I kind of blew it and remembered all the changes except the last one. I think I remember trying to plan ahead and think about where I was supposed to be headed, but in the process of doing that, the guy was already spinning through the air mid-flip. And that's when we collided, his head meeting mine, knocking me out, the impact sending me hurtling toward the floor where I assumedly whacked my head on the floor again. I don't remember the impact. I remember everything but the few minutes leading up to it, and I remember bits and pieces of the aftermath: the ambulance, falling in and out of consciousness in the Emergency Room, the multiple CT's I had done, my Mom finally showing up and me telling her, "My head hurts." I also remember the moments before they rushed me into surgery. One of the doctors explained why they had to operate, why they had to do a craniotomy. "If we don't get you in there to do this soon, you'll die," he said, pretty matter-of-factly and without much emotion at all. But it's not like I was resisting; I was too loopy to really understand the impact of what had happened - although I do remember begging them to let me leave in my newly-pierced nose ring. Which they did.

     I had what they call an epidural hematoma, also, according to the googling I just did, called an extradural hemorrhage. It is a bleed between the inside of the skull and the outer covering of the brain, and it's often caused by a skull fracture, or, in my case, many skull fractures. My doctors are still puzzled to this day as to why this accident caused so much damage. Epidural hematomas are typically reserved for motorcycle accidents and head injuries that happen after extreme sports, like skiing. In fact, you might recall the British actress Natasha Richardson, who died of an epidural hematoma following a skiing accident in Canada. Clicking on her name will take you to an article about it.

Anyway, I spent three days in the hospital, made a great physical recovery, and attended my graduation exactly a week later, titanium plates and 46 staples included.

they started by the top of my right ear, and went all the way back, about two inches above my back hair line.

So... Now... What Do I... Do... ?

     My brain injury coincided with my being thrust into the world of adulthood. And I know that there's a lot of psychological bullshit that accompanies that transition because I can see it in all of my friends. There's a great article from the New York Times a while back that talks about a theory on a new life stage, called Emerging Adulthood. "What is it About 20-Somethings?" talks about the current sociological upsets that are emerging from the lifestyle choices of today's young adults. One psychology professor says that it calls for a re-imagining, a new way of looking at the "transition to adulthood". Societal factors are changing the way we 20-somethings are growing up and experiencing the world around us, and it might be time to start shaping society into something that can accommodate this social evolution. You can read the lengthy article at http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/magazine/22Adulthood-t.html . 

     I feel like many may see it as an excuse for apathy. That us 20-somethings have been babied our whole lives, so we're not prepared because our parents have pampered us. I can't argue with that, because I don't know what it is about myself that's caused me to stray so far from the old-school status quo. I would say I haven't been pampered, but it would be a lie, to an extent. I feel like I've always been responsible for much more than my peers, who mostly came from wealthier families, but I still don't pay for my car insurance. But I guess I've always assumed that straying from the status quo was part of the deal because I'm an actor. The choices that I've made as an adult have been a result of my "career," not because of my financial position. But... alas, the two are inexorably linked. 

     I have spent everyday since entering adulthood, and since my accident, trying to combat the mediocrity that threatens to plague me. I've lost my joie de vivre, my savoir-faire, my... my je ne sais quoi.  That thing about me that made me exciting and excited, that made me feel like I was meant for something greater. My raison d'être.

     All right enough with the French quips. Some people might argue that now, more than ever, it's clear that I do have a purpose. After all, before I had it, I had always wanted that "thing" - something that made me appreciate my life, that gave me a purpose, not felt like it took it away. I feel so powerless, out of control, at the mercy of the world now. I used to feel like I could control my future, but now I'm not so sure. I feel like I'm sitting around waiting for something to happen. An apathetic heroine, awaiting her way out, her deus ex machina...
     Sure, I've gained wisdom in the ways of my years and experience. But I'm at a point where I'm debating the value of wisdom over the positivity and optimism that came with being less wise. Foolish, even, to believe that I could do whatever I want to do. It seems almost impossible now.

     I'm just... off. In adulthood, I'm not motivated to do anything. Maybe it's because there's no one giving me grades or deadlines. Maybe it's because I'm really depressed.

I feel really guilty for feeling the way that I do. There's nothing wrong with me. I look the same, I'm the same... but I'm different.

... ... ... ... ... ...

I don't know how to finish this post.  The thing about injuries is that they only inspire other people when the injured person has learned to cope. Is that the right word? Maybe "move on" is a better phrase.

But yet, moving on requires that you forget. Right? Perhaps not, maybe I need to just accept my injury in some way, so that thinking about it doesn't elicit such negative feelings. But how can I see it in a positive light? From what I hear, time heals all wounds. And yet, here I am, a year later, feeling very much the same way I did at the beginning. Sweeping all of my emotional baggage into a corner and covering it with a couch and a fashionable tapestry, where everyone, including myself, can see it.

I guess in a way it's opened my eyes. My accident, injury, whatever you want to label it. I think a lot about other people and what they carry around with them I walk around and look completely unharmed, completely uninjured. No one knows anything about my injury unless I tell them. How many others must I have encountered, then, that have hidden injuries like me? That are depressed, for whatever reason, like me?

     Even after I got out all of my insecurities at the beginning of this post, I still find myself wanting to apologize for writing it. "No one wants to read about self-psycho analyzing," I'd tell you. "No one wants to read about self-hatred." I even tried to do the American thing and Googled 'self-hatred'.  What I came up with was a site about how to get out of a place of self-loathing and its opposite, self-esteem: http://www.therapyideas.net/self-hatred.htm . It was okay I guess.
     But I've been trying lately to push myself out of my comfort zone a little and stop apologizing for everything. I know I've probably been doing it this whole time, but no more apologizing for being myself, from this point on. No more fear of rejection ! ... ...  may,be ... ... ... ...

The Happy... Middle

This blog post took me about a month to write. The actual writing time probably wasn't more than a couple of hours, but the thinking and reflecting, the wondering what to say next, the ... ending, it just hadn't happened. I didn't know how to end.


But then a couple of things happened. First, I was finally and completely inspired by something! It had been a while. I saw this video:

From the Backseat: Making It to the Monster Ball

And I was just so inspired by her gall. No apologies at all:

"Yeah we just told lie after lie, after surreal dream, after moment, you can do it you can do it you can be it. And then we woke up one day and we were like, we are, it worked... I told so many people for so long that I was a superstar and I wasn't, and one morning I woke up and the delusion was real...
I get to live my dream and hopefully live my dream in a way that inspires other people to live their dream."

I want to pass that on! "A coup de monde - a coup of the world" is what she called it. There's some French that we could use in this horrifically somber blog post.


And then, :

My roommate and best friend posted this today. I'm posting it here because it really touched me, and here I can keep it written forever.

     And finally, I had a great conversation with a fantastic old friend, and I was telling her about my blogger's block and my struggle to end this godforsaken post. And she told me a wise thing: that it doesn't have to have an ending yet. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, so there's no need to rush the process. This is a Part One. And while I really really hate those sometimes, I'm learning to appreciate that sometimes you need to get everything out in the open even if you haven't come to a resolution. And then Part Two's journey will be much more joyous and enlightened. A beautiful ending, I hope. Maybe I'm on the edge of a huge paradigm shift. A new worldview... a different perspective than I ever thought possible. I can't wait to find out, and share it with you. But in the meantime, as my friend also brilliantly reminded me, life goes on. There can still be room for all of the other thrilling, sarcastic, witty, and cheesy moments that fill my life - and fill my blog.




     But I want to start something new, to remind me, as I blog, that I am me, and if you don't like me, then I guess I can't apologize for being me.
  
When I used to keep a diary, my favorite part was the signature. I loved signing off, coming up with different ways to say "With love, Whitney". Even now that I don't keep a diary, I always put a closing remark at the end of my emails... or letters, if I ever write them. The other day, my dad texted me and ended with a great signature - I was shocked to realize I had never thought about it before.

loveallways,

.whitney