Rehab felt a lot like elementary school to me. A lot of the subjects and tasks were the same, and of course, it was a very structured environment. I was asked to do a lot of things and I was not told why I needed to learn what I was doing, I was just supposed to except the task on faith and try my best. Not surprisingly, I assumed a lot of the attitudes and habits that I had in school.
I didn't feel like I was doing these things for my own benefit. I felt like it was my job to please my rehab professionals. I felt like I was doing it for them. They were always making demands and offering praise if I obeyed. So I took a lot of short cuts and satisfied myself that whatever I had done was 'good enough.' I did what I figured was required to get by.
I knew the song and dance about how this was all for my benefit, but it didn't feel that way. If I had stepped back and thought about it, I would have admitted that I knew it was for my own good. On a day by day basis however, I felt like I was merely trying to accede to their demands.
Empty motions accomplish very little. What I really needed to do was explain to myself, at every opportunity, why I was doing the things I was doing, instead of just going through the motions. If I couldn't see the point to what I was doing then I should have asked.
Knowing why I am doing something is very important. It is the basis of motivation.
I also believe in the power of the mind to heal. I think that if you tell yourself that you are going to learn how to do something for a reason or purpose, then your mind will obey. The mind is a powerful tool. Even the mind of a brain injured person. The brain is the wiring and the mind is the current that runs through the wires. The wiring may be damaged, but the current is still there.
Your brain is damaged, but you are still who you are. Your mind is still alive and thinking and feeling. Sometimes I feel as if I'm trapped under the ice of a frozen lake. I'm still okay, but I can't get a message through. I pound and I pound on the ice, but the ice is thick and no one can hear me. It is cold, dark, and lonely. Above me there is light that I can not reach. I can see my friends and family walking on the ice above me, desperately looking for me and trying to get a message through to me. One by one I see them give up hope and walk away, shaking their heads and looking back every once in awhile, longing for me, feeling that I'm so close but fearing they will never see me again. This is the despair I feel. That picture beneath the frozen lake is the picture that's frozen in my mind.
That is why I struggle so hard to recover. That is why wellness isn't just a catchy phrase for me, but a moral imperative. To the extent that I have been successful I wish to chronicle my achievements so that others can use my experiences to forge their own tools to chip through the ice.
It can be done.