I Cried Successfully Today

This morning I woke up and did what I always do now: I reread the notes about my life. The big reminders. The checklist of what I need to know to be successful each day. I studied them like they were instructions for a job I used to know how to do without thinking. Because they are. Even with them though, they still often are not enough to be ‘successful’ each day.

I got to work and moved through the emails. One meeting got cancelled and I felt a small, guilty spark of relief—one less thing my brain had to hold onto today. By mid-afternoon the fog rolled in hard. Not the kind of tired a nap can touch or fix. This is the fatigue that makes your vision blur at the edges, turns a headache into a drumline behind your eyes, and slowly takes away your ability to choose what to focus on. Eventually the only thought left is keep going. When even that started to slip, I closed my door, closed my eyes, and sat with the new version of my life, just waiting for it to pass.

I thought about the limitations that weren’t there before. The way simple things now require strategy and notes and second-guessing. I tried to remember what my own reminders tell me: Don’t give up hope. You’re not alone. When the worst of the headache eased enough for me to function again, I finished what I could and wrote myself notes for tomorrow. I wasn’t successful but I was trying.

On the drive home I glanced at the family calendar and saw we’re hosting multiple meals this week. I called my wife to see if she needed anything while I was still in town. She started listing things—chicken, bread, milk—and before long the list was too long for me to hold. Again, unsuccessful at the task at hand, I asked her to text it. She did.

At the store my brain was already done for the day. The lights, the people, the endless choices. I reread the list multiple times, double-checking every item. For a couple things we were out of, I grabbed extras so we’d have one left on hand. I thought I was being helpful. Thoughtful, even. I left the store forgetting where I parked and not sure where my vehicle was. I hit the unlock button on the key until I finally saw the flashes of the lights. Driving home, I realized I was starting to become very tired again and pulled in a parking lot to rest my eyes one more time.

When I got home the heat was brutal—over 90 degrees with humidity that felt like walking through damp towels. I made trip after trip from the car, each one draining me more. By the last load I was fading fast. I was sweating enough to need a shower. When I carried the last load in, I turned the corner and saw my wife was frustrated. In trying to be helpful I had doubled things she had already proactively doubled. Once again, my attempt to anticipate and lighten her load had created more work instead. I should have just followed the list, I should have known that because my list each day tells me to even. Yet, I couldn’t keep that straight in the moment. My failures at communication had led to more stress yet again for her, even in an activity solely entered into to reduce it. I don’t think I’ve successfully grocery shopped from her perspective since the injury. I’m not sure I’ve done much of anything successfully in her eyes lately.

But in fairness to her, I haven’t done much successfully in my own eyes either. It’s not about in her eyes or mine, I simply have not done much successfully anymore with this brain injury. Work, driving, shopping — all with their own challenges, all with their own shortcomings.

But I did do one thing successfully today.

I cried.

I cried all evening at what this life has become. Cried at letting down my wife again. At not being able to provide for her as the husband I used to be. Cried at the people I loved who have chosen to step away permanently despite nothing I could have done better. Cried at the bedtime battles with the kids—during hours of resistance when all I’m trying to do is get them the sleep they need and mom also communicated clearly to them. Cried at the increased stress and burden my wife carries now as caregiver for a disabled spouse. At the way I keep upsetting the person I’m trying hardest to help, simply by existing in this broken version of myself. Cried until my eyes hurt and my shirt became cool and wet with tears.

I cried successfully.

It may not be much. But it’s something I can still do. So if you ever need someone to cry with, or for, or about… I guess I’m your guy.

Some days the only victory is letting yourself feel how heavy it all is. Today that was the success I had. I cried.