The Accident - Aftermath

1 year later.

Photo by Viktor Talashuk on Unsplash

I don’t remember the hit.

I came to screaming.

A year later and the screams have finally stopped haunting me - mostly. Sometimes, when I’m about to cross through the intersection where it happened, I’ll hear myself again - a loop of sound that I didn’t know I was capable of making.

It’s such an odd thing…coming to because of your own screams.

I don’t remember the hit - I remember the sound, the loss of hearing, “smoke” surrounding me.

I swore I was on fire because of the powder from the airbag that kept my head from slamming into the side window.

Pain exploded in my abdomen where the seatbelt had done its job.

My mind has blocked out my head hitting the airbag. My mind has blocked out the impact.

The first thing I recall is looking up and seeing that my front end was embedded in the side of a van and that I was turned at an angle I shouldn’t have been.

Through my windshield, I could see the other driver on her phone. My car was speaking to me trying to call for help and repeatedly telling me I’d been in an accident. A muffled ringing sound was beginning in my ear and I realized I needed to shut off the car and call 911.

I was not calm. I was terrified, in pain, in shock, and angry.

My car totaled. Front end falling apart - the radiator was trying to escape.

A very nice cop opened my car door and held my hands to help me out. I told him everything I was experiencing and he said an ambulance was on the way. He grabbed my purse and water for me. The other party was completely fine, still on her phone, and refusing to look at me or showing any kind of care. The coldness from her still chills me to the core.

I never saw it coming.

A year later and I still flinch if cars pull out from the sides to quickly.

Red light runners bring out a rage in me that is ignited every time I see it happen. Which is every day in this city. To and from work, I see cars fly through red lights. I want to chase every single one down and shake them and force them to listen to my screams. So they can be haunted instead of me.

I ended up with a concussion and whiplash.

I was lucky it wasn’t so much worse.

Though I don’t exactly feel lucky.

The days and weeks immediately afterwards left me in a fog. I spoke as though I was underwater most days, my speech delayed unless I had to be “on” and then it became a fight to stay as present and alert as possible. I could do it, in short bursts. By the end of every day I am usually a pile of mush, unable to make decisions that require a lot of thought. No one tells you that brain injuries can last months and years. No doctor sat me down and explained to me what was happening in my brain, they just gave me a diagnosis and left me to figure it all out.

A year later and the bruises are gone, but every so often my neck, back, hip and knee flare with pain, a forever reminder. My body will never be the same.

Four seconds changed my life.

A year later and my creative mind still struggles, buried under the soggy weighted blanket of the concussion. I frequently find myself playing the is this the concussion, perimenopause, or just my brain now, game.

A year later and I still have a hard time driving through the intersection. I hold my breath and look both ways several times before going.

The panic attacks have mostly stopped. But the fear lingers in the backseat, occasionally trying to whisper shout at me to listen to them instead.

I had a small nagging feeling this morning when I woke up, to slow down. Not to rush to do anything or be anywhere. I arrived at work safely and breathed a sigh of relief. I don’t remember holding my breath.

The body holds it all though. And my mind sets it free.

Here’s hoping that next year, May 6th, will become just another day where the weather isn’t terribly hot yet and I won’t have wonder if I’m being haunted anymore by my own screams. A day in which I can just breathe normally and know that I’m okay. Always. No matter what.

I can’t get those four seconds back, but I can make sure that I don’t let them hold me hostage.

Healing isn’t always linear, though I wish it was. Some wounds do just fine when they’re covered.

Others need the light.