The me that I used to know could organize events.
But now I am afraid to check my email.
This me, this thing that is left, never bathes, rarely thinks before acting and has bouts of mental anguish every day at about five p.m.
I am left to wear the clothes of the person I used to be, and people still recognize me as such.
They expect more of me than I can give.
I explain my limitations, but because I look the same, they can’t accept that my brain is turning into mush.
Most people’s brains don’t change radically, if they’re lucky, so I can see how it might be hard to accept that I am a lower functioning being in some areas.
Several months ago, before I realized I couldn’t do it anymore, I agreed to help my church, an organization that I love, with marketing and promotion.
A split second after I made the commitment, I realized I simply no longer had the capacity to do what it took.
So I wrote a long, frank letter to the group’s leader, explaining that, at the very most, I could take notes at meetings to give to my husband so he could do his part.
Yesterday I received a letter from the group’s leader, saying that if I still “WANTED” to help with promotions, these are the things I could do.
I wanted to bash what is left of my brains on the wall.
To think I am not doing this because I don’t WANT to when there is nothing more I would love to do than to be able to function again.
To not accept what cannot be seen. On a churchy level, I thought people would be able to accept the reality of my brain damage using this spiritual metaphor, but it is not turning out that way.
There is nothing more that I would WANT to do than to help my church. I love it and everyone there and even though I know it is not my fault that I have this disease, I kick myself every day for not being able to contribute more.
I will do what I can, but I hope they understand it will be in the form of handing out brochures.
Until I can’t do that any more.