Where am I now?

There I was with an old computer for a brain. As the days progressed, my symptoms worsened as it became harder and harder for me to sleep. It felt as though my brain was disintegrating like sand flowing between my fingers, and along with it, my chances of getting a PhD.

I imagined a stack of dominoes, each cream-colored rectangular block representing each one of my mistakes, each one toppling on top of one another at a speed that could not be stopped until it reached my PhD, forcing it too to topple over.

My mind swelled with regret as I re-played the events of my accident over and over again in my mind. My chest heaved with grief as I sobbed in anger, mourning the loss of the life I once had. My life as I knew it was so close and yet so far from my grasp. It didn’t help that I also romanticized the life I had before: it was a life rich and overflowing with friends and passion, I insisted on imagining (in reality, it was a life so overflowing that I was burned out). I wished for nothing more than to turn back the clock so I could go back and erase the accident from my history.

It was hard to believe my friends who had had concussions. They told me over and over again: “It WILL get better. I promise. Slowly but surely your symptoms will start to slip away from your awareness until the symptoms are nothing but a distant memory.” I just cried into the phone, knowing that they were right but unable to untangle myself from the grasp of panic and pain.

However, I remembered their words, and again and again I told myself: This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

On some days in some rare moments, I found myself taking pleasure in just being. There was nothing to do but lay in bed and sit in awareness of the present moment. I had to admit that in some way that in and of itself was a beautiful thing: to just sit, and listen, and be, with nothing to do and nowhere to be, just lay there in bed and feel the softness of the blankets. It was nice, in its own way.  

Where am I now with the process?

Looking back on it now, I don’t regret anything. I don’t regret the day I got on my bike and looked for a place to fill the air in my tires. I don’t regret the time I spent with my family and my friends in the US over the winter. I had not returned to Pittsburgh in years, and not only did I get to see old friends, but also much to my great joy and pleasure, I returned to my high school Oakland Catholic to reunite with old teachers and coaches. I gave two presentations about my experiences in college, going abroad, and learning foreign languages to the girls.

During those winter months, I learned the importance of asking for and receiving help. I learned my vulnerability as a human being, and that tomorrow is not a promise. In doing so, I found that the meaning of life could be found in being vulnerable and dependent on others. I learned to take breaks, and listen to my body when it was telling me I was pushing too hard, and to be kind to myself when I was getting burned out. My headaches forced me to bring myself back to the present moment when I was lost in my work.

Now five months after the accident, my symptoms are, as my friends had promised, little more than a distant memory. The symptoms are fading farther and farther away from my awareness, so much so that recently it has not affected my daily life. I’ve returned to doing research in China, reading, writing, and exercising. I’ve decided to continue pursuing my PhD.

In many ways, the break actually helped my research, giving me and my participants a much-needed break, helping refresh my perspective and zoom out again, and giving me beginner’s eyes again upon my return.

Occasionally, my ears ring, black spots dance in my field of vision, my head aches, and on most days, I sink into bed with exhausted relief at 8 or 9 pm (read: much earlier than I used to). These symptoms are no more than an annoyance the way a runny nose might be during hay fever season. And so, as one might expect, I am returning to some of my old habits.

Perhaps now the real work begins: When I don’t have a concussion reminding me to slow down, take care of myself, and enjoy the present moment.

I wonder what the next year has in store for me. A lot of people say that we grow up a lot between the ages of 28-32. I turned 28 last week. So here’s to more challenges and changes in the years to come. Cheers!

A picture of me last week at a local apricot festival. Spring is coming!