When You Literally Cannot Brain

3 05 2016

I am non-ironically talking, thinking, & writing like a Tumblr millennial. This is the actual best I can do. My flare now has deep cognitive involvement. 

This will probably be disjointed because I think I am saying what I’m thinking, yet I find that I am not.

Prime example: I called into work once I realized the dizziness was just going to be a thing & nothing was making it go away. I have learned it is a very bad idea to drive or interact with humans when this happens. I am also walking like I’m hip deep in ocean water, & I feel sunburned, & whatever weird thing was happening with my right arm yesterday is worse.

Wait, ok.

So I call in & in my mind I am thinking “Hello, this is Kellie Jane. I won’t be able to come in today because my illness has flared & cannot perform my job duties. I am very sorry.”

I think I said “Hi, it’s Kellie Jane. I am…not well.” Thankfully Tiffany on the other end must have understood, because she said “Ok, I’ll take you off, feel better.” I hope I apologized before I hung up.

This is about to sound toffee nosed: when your intelligence is the first thing people have noticed about you all your life (until your boobs happened…now it’s the second), not having intelligence is devastating. That’s not right…not being able to converse intelligently is devastating. Not being able to think clearly is terrifying.

I have developed empathy for people with dementia. I know exactly what I think I want to say & do. I think I know what I want to think. But it all fritters away, like blown dandelion seeds. You cannot catch them again. You stand inside yourself screaming at your mouth, your hands.

You get very discouraged. You know somewhere inside that this has happened before, and that it gets better, but you are not convinced of that today. You know that if you met a new person today, they would think you are very dull.

I will try to explain it for the norms. You know when you are so tired you can’t think of a word, or you have a fever & your thoughts sort of fly up into your frontal lobe, then sizzle & disintegrate upon landing? It’s like that but for a day or more.

It is comforting to remember that exactly what is happening to me now has been described by an actual doctor (who also has fibro):


I can’t even work on my book for fear it will end up even worse than this post. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back & corrected stuff, mostly because I don’t remember.

If you are also having cognitive difficulties, I hope you find this & it helps you realize you’re not alone & that it’s not permanent. You’re just having a super hard time converting ATP into whatever we need it for, which I can’t remember right now.

Advertisements