Weaponised (Traumatic Brain) Incompetence.
Occasionally it's tempting to use TBI to my advantage, but usually it's just another excuse.
This afternoon I changed the bedsheets.
No, honestly, please. Hold your applause.
It’s one of many everyday, straightforward tasks which serve as an unhelpful reminder that I’m still not ‘better’.
Out of breath, dizzy and clammy, I sat on the freshly made bed embarrassed at myself. This is not a job I should have any problem with whatsoever. It’s not rocket science.
It’s that mismatch of effort vs reward that hits me. I don’t want to deal with this level of fatigue and vertigo. And it’s only going to get worse as I age, making living a fulfilled life harder and more fraught as the years pass.
I fester on that fact. In short, my standard of daily life isn’t where I want it to be, and its set to get worse, not better.
On the face of it, that’s all a bit much for a bloke who got annoyed because he mistakenly put a double duvet inside a king cover (ohh, someone’s doing alright for themselves), then couldn’t locate the correct fitted sheet.
It’s all very weaponised incompetence, with a big dollop of self-effacing woe looming over everything.
So, a quick explainer/rationalisation:
When my fatigue is at its most stark I make poorer decisions, then vertigo flares up, my fuse rapidly shortens and stuff can all start to feel a bit big. One of those things almost always leads to the others. And down the spiral I go until I’ve eaten enough, drunk some water, admitted that paracetamol might be a good idea and had a little rest.
That’s my routine now. It happens most days — not just when I’m changing the bedding. But life goes on around me and I engage with it as much as, and as best, I can.
To be clear. I’m not completely inept. Yes, I know doing the simple stuff is good for you:
Walking the dog
Eating well
Watching Gone Fishing
Getting enough sleep
Seeing friends and family
But low mood, low pulse, low iron and low blood sugar is a hell of a cocktail. And one that often lands me in a headspace of big-bottom-lipped learned helplessness over something as silly as pulling the wrong sized cover over the duvet.
I’m still hunting for the reason why I’m like this post-TBI. Something beyond “brain injury is a mysterious and multifactorial challenge” would be nice. However, I’m yet to find a doctor, or therapist, who has some tangible, actionable guidance to help me regain the hope that this isn’t just me. Forever.
Notes:
This is all a bit doom and gloom considering the highs of Best Manning on Friday. So perhaps this is just my bumped brain resetting its equilibrium.
The highs and lows are often brought into sharper relief on Monday afternoons, now I work four day weeks (Tuesday-Friday). There’s guilt, joy, money worries, occasional purposelessness and the comforting routine of the weekly shop. I hear the phrase Sunday Scaries a lot, so I suspect this is just a case of the Monday Morbs.
And finally, Gone Fishing is back. The best show on the telly is here to help me cry, consider my own mortality, and gently drift into a dreamless sleep. I love it.