Everybody has done dirt, some more than others.

At first wake I only knew to do the most menial actions, eat, breathe and so on. Found myself once again since childhood stricken to diapers but as my brain injury was of the severe traumatic sort, to care I did not. Thankfully I was not alone, my All-knowing God had pre-placed myself with a loving mother and family, on top of being re-re-born again. It was brought to my attention that EVERY thing that occurs in this world whether good or bad Jehovah foreknew it. In all reality, no one knows how many times I’ve been born again or anyone has, seeing that every time death is evaded should be looked on as a rebirth in a sense.

I say for the first year or two after my waking up in UVA hospital, even after I was sent home my thinking was far more 2-D with everything falling into two categories, good or bad. Instead of the usual thinking ahead farther down the “track”, or 3-D thinking, but even that form of thinking will not totally “cure” whatever the problem may be. Although many answers will be given, they are false, Jehovah, He alone is the ONE answer.

The last few months of my hospital stay I was moved to HealthSouth Rehabilitation Center. Despite myself being bedridden, I pounced on every chance to walk like a ravenous poodle on the last piece of jerky. First. All around my bed. Then the circles got bigger till, much to “their” uneasiness, I was taking far more chances than were even given to me. I can’t tell you what was going through my head then, but my good guess would be that. There I was, 25 years old, 6 foot four and mentally about eight years old.

Just as there are multiple definitions of some words like “crane or date”, calling a person “simple” can be seen under two lights, a red or green light. With my injury being shown under the green seeing that my injury had not been reintroduced into the “normal” culture, I did not have to deal directly with people talking about me.

It wasn’t more than four months till my steps to stepping began forming in my maimed little skull, coinciding with a usual little habit my mother passed down to me. In which we left for church a half an hour or so earlier than needed giving us free time at Starbucks. You see, before the accident I so, VERY, wasn’t a caffeine addict. But after the first couple of Sundays, with me ordering my coffee masked under mounds of chocolate and caramel syrup, I slowly slipped into the rut like so many people before me.



Holla at me.

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