Sometimes the Glass Really is Half Empty

I try, I really try to see every glass as half full, not half empty. A glass is round and when it is hit by something it bounces off in a completely different direction. It can’t be hit by the exact same thing in the exact same spot. So when I look at life as a glass half full, it is headed towards overflowing and by design it can not be penetrated. This keeps me moving forward, pressing on, determined not to be depleted or shattered.

But sometimes the water is full of air, full of bubbles that make it too cloudy to see through. Or the glass isn’t transparent so who would know if it really is half full or half empty? The glass can seem square shaped, making every pot shot bounce off and hit in the same spot repeatedly until it is broken. With a square glass holding cloudy water what do you do? If the glass isn’t transparent, you can’t press on enough to see through the glass, the battle is lost before it has begun.

Your normal is not my normal, or anyone else’s normal. Everyone has something unique that makes the definition of normal itself, unique. We each have something to conquer each day, something that has the ability and weight to sink us to depths that would drag a bobber to the bottom of the lake.

I have learned, well I am still learning, to live with epilepsy and a brain injury each day. I often wonder if it were just a brain injury, how would life be different? If it were just epilepsy, how would that be different? If my already injured brain weren’t dependent on medicine to limit seizures, what would be different? If I never had to go to Target that winter day in 2005, how would my life be different? Now, I know and I can list off in excess, the ways that my life has been enriched because of my circumstances. I will never ever deny the tremendous value of the experiences I have had or that my family has had due to my injuries. That walk in Target shaped my family into who we are today. There is much for which I am grateful and that enables me to see the glass half full.

Sometimes though, I just need to allow myself time to acknowledge there are consequences of my fall that just plain suck. I have yet to find a medicine, and I have certainly tried my fair share, that doesn’t have some side effect that over time becomes intolerable, either for me or for my family. I hate that I hate when the phone rings, because every nerve in my body flinches with fear because I’m about to be forced into a conversation that I did not initiate. I will be forced to try to decode my misfiring brain into words that may or may not communicate correctly. I will be asked questions that I need time to understand and to answer, yet the caller will expect quick responses, because that’s how a normal person responds. I hate that I cannot initiate a conversation of much merit because my brain is just a blank canvas without even a paintbrush. I enjoy watching my family laugh and scream on roller coasters, but I get tired of just walking from ride to ride and sitting at the end of the off ramp because I can’t ride with them. My family loves to watch a brilliant fireworks show, but I get bored holding my chin to my chest with my eyes closed. It’s frustrating to look in my closet and not understand how to put together a snazzy outfit that matches. (I’m so glad I have boys that aren’t dependent on female advice about fashion…I can not fathom the disastrous outfits that I would have put together for a girl.) It’s embarrassing to look at a teenage cashier and have to walk away leaving all my groceries on the conveyer belt because I’m confused by the sale price or the coupon or just the small talk they are genuinely trying to make with me. I feel horrible guilt when the boys’ teachers ask for volunteers and I don’t respond. I imagine them thinking “she doesn’t work, so she should have her hiney helping somewhere”. It’s embarrassing when I can’t understand the directions a 3rd grade teacher is giving for a game. It only gets worse when the kids try to explain and I still don’t understand. And my confidence hits rock bottom when the teacher tells the group of kids their leader has misguided them. When my son looks at his classmate and explains “she just doesn’t understand”, the fishing bobber has joined me at rock bottom. It’s humiliating to have to say no. I can not begin to put words to the demeaning feelings that overwhelm me when I have to say no to volunteering at my church. I, of all people know the need for volunteers and I should be first in line with a hand raised, but I can’t, I simply can’t. I know the need, but my role is as a seat filler now.

**Hold that thought….my phone alarm has just alerted me that it is time for a dose of medicine. If I hit snooze I may not remember to take my medicine later. I would like to continue with my train of thought, yet I am forced to stop….with a body dependent on a consistent dosing of medication that allows me to live my kind of normal. I can only hope to remember where I was in thought.**

Ok, I hope can resume regular programming now…

I share these things not because I am seeking sympathy. I don’t need sympathy because I know without a doubt that I have blessings that continually overflow. I share these things because sometimes I need to allow myself to vent and admit that there are some things that just suck. I have adapted. My entire family has adapted. That doesn’t mean that I have to like it all the time. My square glass has been leaking slowly for some time now. Maybe it finally shattered from relentless pot shots and the cloudy water has soaked my fingers and toes.

This season will pass and I will more fully accept and adapt to whatever circumstances come my way. The good news is that when a glass breaks, it is thrown away and replaced with a new one. We refill it with crystal clear water and the glass remains half full.

© Gatewood Campbell, August 2013

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8 thoughts on “Sometimes the Glass Really is Half Empty

  1. Wendy Faucette says:

    Our lives/glass is fuller because of your writing and because you are a part of our lives.

  2. gahwagner says:

    You writing is beautiful and thought provoking. It speaks to me as I am just starting the journey with a brain tumor. You are a wonderful
    Mother and wife and friend to everyone

  3. Cheairs says:

    Your words….always so honest and beautiful…..we love you.

  4. Angela Broome says:

    Thank you for sharing Gatewood.

  5. Maggie says:

    Thank you for following my blog, Gatewood. I too have epilepsy, and I have come to really enjoy your writing. I look forward to reading more of you.

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