Bella & the Beast.png
Search
  • Hartebeast

"MILD" TBI ISN'T MILD: a cheesy poem about Dain Bramage

Updated: 4 days ago


THE HIDDEN INJURY

I wasn’t in a coma; my skull, it didn’t crack

But I can’t figure out how to get my darn life back

No punctures and no blood loss; my bones, they didn’t break

But don’t think for a moment that my recovery’s cake

My TBI has only deserved the rank of Mild

“Only” you might say—ha-ha!—when I feel like a child

I once was Valedictorian, a whiz-kid, and “The Brain”

Now I glitch and stutter and mental tasks are my bane

Yet I’m not “bad enough” to warrant some assistance

When I look for some help I am met with resistance

My injury is brushed off like the most annoying gnat

No program, no therapist, a neurologist? What’s that?

I got a couple months of rehab after the crash

But PPOs don’t like those who siphon all their cash

They booted me as fast as (in)humanly possible

Why I should need their help was now not cognizable

I scramble and I scrimp and I try to keep afloat

But having to be “normal” keeps crushing my li’l boat

I’ve fallen through the cracks and been caught in-betweensies

Because my injuries have been called little teensies

It doesn’t take that much, see, a microscopic rip

One good bash can render a once-brainiac a dip

A car wreck, stroke or face-punch, that sledding crash at seven

Brain surgery, or falling, that horse-kick at eleven

No matter how it happened, results sure are profound

Mine was a drunk driver on the cold freeway, northbound

My head smashed on the door frame, my brain, it got all sloshed

Around inside my skull and my neurons, they got squashed

Now comprehension’s sucky, my verbal skills are vague

I avoid the public like there’s an outbreak of plague

I come off as ill-mannered, or fickle and ditzy

A trigger-hair basket-case emotional fritzy

Can’t add or problem solve and I can’t recall jack shit

When I can’t find my stuff I throw a huge hissy-fit

I growl at all bright lights and commercials and loud sound

When my brain has gone glitchy, I really want to pound

The snot out of anything and swear and foam and kill

My profanity’s a feat of incomparable skill

You would never guess it—what, sweet little me?

I’m all sugar and honey--’til my brain goes “B’deeee”

I thought I prolly should just stick close to my own kind

I went to the support group for those of injured mind

I hoped if anyone could understand that they would

But my experience there was not so feely-good

A bunch of them considered my “mild” hurts too piddly

Then I realized it--they didn’t know diddly

Everyone has their own bed of burning coals to tread

But dammit, so do I. No! It’s not all in my head!

Well, actually it is--it’s referred to as Brain Damage

Both mild and the severe are difficult to manage

There’s not a lot of funding; our plight is not well-known

We’re like unwanted step-kids--we’re rather on our own

Those with severe traumas get the notice and the aid

While tiny bumps heal up, their subjects not waylaid

It’s us here in the middle, an all-too-common class

Undiagnosed, brushed aside—we’re all out here, en mass

Your hermit bro, your weird aunt, your unreliable friend

You never know, they may have Dain Bramage that won’t mend

“The Hidden Injury”—it’s been given an apt name

Don’t see it--don’t WANNA see--and we all take the blame

“Depressed” and “Anti-social,” “Forgetful,” “OCD”

“She’s not the brightest bulb,” “He’s tactless,” and “Lazy”

The monikers are many, but highly off their mark

Many med practitioners, they remain in the dark

There’s not much we can do here, except still scrape along

Until the others get it and help us to belong

Meanwhile, we who suffer can build a good foundation

By imparting our tales in hopes of education

--


For y’all who have as much difficulty with the written word as I have in the audio channel — I gotcha covered:


UP NEXT: A Little Somethin' About PTSD


© 2018 by theHARTEBEAST. Proudly created with Wix.com