"Why Didn't You Let Go of the Leash?": My Early Childhood TBI

In 1986, I was five years old, and one afternoon I put a leash on our family dog and went out for a walk. I had no idea that this would be a decision that would change my life forever. 

Our dog was little more than a puppy, an energetic Cocker Spaniel, and I can still recall the way he strained and tugged on the leash, all but dragging me behind him. 

He had soon rushed up to the edge of a six foot retaining wall and before I knew it, he was leaping off. 

 I didn't let go of the leash. I don't know why I didn't let go of the leash. But I was plummeting down after him. And before I even knew what had happened, I had fallen face-first onto concrete, striking my head. 

I remember a bright flash. And then, darkness. 

I regained consciousness sometime later vaguely aware that I was on my mother's bed. As my vision slowly returned, I could make out her form over in the corner of the room, on the telephone. She was screaming hysterically to someone on the other end. All at once, my head was flooded with intense pain. I began to cry. And then, I began to feel very, very sleepy. 

I recall my mother turning around and desperately shouting at me not to fall asleep, if I fell asleep I might never wake up. 

But I couldn't help it. My eyelids were so heavy. Soon, they closed, and the darkness returned.

It's odd to describe, but I have no recollection of the weeks following the accident. There was the second time I lost consciousness, and then, all at once, I remember realizing that I was in the car with my nanny. She was thrilled that I seemed to be "waking up", as she put it, a confusing amount of praise was heaped on me for "waking up." 

I was told I'd be going back to kindergarten soon, how everyone had missed me, they'd all written me cards. Everyone was so cheerful as they assured me the bruises around my eyes were almost gone away, that my pupils were starting to be the same size again. 

It was fine, everything was fine, I was fine, it had happened and my family was very eager to put the whole thing behind them. As a mother now, I can empathize. I can't imagine the amount of guilt my mother must have felt for having this happen on her watch. Any time I mentioned it in the years that followed, she became nervous, upset, and demanded, over and over, "Why didn't you let go of the leash? You should have just let go of the leash!" 

I wish I could say that this was the end of the story. Unfortunately, it was only the beginning. 

In the months and years that followed the accident, my entire personality changed. Once a bubbly, agreeable little girl, I became a moody, angry little tyrant. Outwardly, I screamed and tantrumed, I acted out violently toward others, I was okay one moment and in the next, falling to pieces.

 But inwardly, I felt like I was walking around without skin. I was constantly, unendingly overstimulated. I couldn't handle bright sunlight, heat, chlorinated water, florescent lighting...I was terrified of the sound of a vacuum or a hair dryer. People just bothered me. I wanted to be alone with my books. If forced to be around others against my wishes, I would absolutely meltdown. And if something unexpectedly frightened me, I would black out and come to later curled up in a corner with adults hovering over me, shaking me, shouting my name. 

Everyone began to call me willful, spoiled, defiant, a brat. It would be two decades before the truth was finally realized: I had a broken brain.