I experienced a mild brain injury a handful of years ago. It happened when I was out climbing and I took a fall and hit the back of my head. The helmet I was wearing had a pressure point there. It caused my scalp to open and the back of my head to swell. It bled a lot.

Luckily someone had a first-aid kit and bandaged me up so I could hike back to the car and get driven to the hospital. I was lucid the whole time. I recall everything perfectly. In the emergency room, I was assessed and they stitched up my head and did a quick brain scan. And since I was so lucid, and I even told a joke or two to lighten the situation, they told me I was fine. No concussion symptoms here. Go home, you’re good.

Telling me I was okay slowed my recovery. I pretended I was fine when I was not. I was raised to have a stiff upper lip, to be a good girl, help others and for gosh sakes don’t show any weakness. As a result, few people know the difficulties I’ve had from my brain injury. I don’t think they want to know. They prefer me as the happy, easygoing, supportive person I’ve always been.

The biggest challenge with a mild brain injury is that, for the most part, it’s invisible. People think I am fine when I am not. It’s hard trying to explain to someone that I’m having a brain injury moment. Like when I can’t remember a familiar word or name. Or when my tolerance for stress is not great.

My symptoms were the worst during the two years after my brain injury. I had moments where my mind would go blank, when I had trouble putting words together, when my head would spin. The lump on my skull throbbed and for years I couldn’t lie on it or put pressure on that point. Imagine not sleeping because there’s a lump on your head, and trying to explain your fatigue to the people in your life, every single day.

I still get bouts of vertigo where the room starts to spin and I have to sit perfectly still to make it stop. Sometimes it happens when I lie down and there’s nothing I can do but wait for it to pass. That’s the worst.

Almost as bad, though, are the non-physical effects of the injury – most notably an increase in my anxiety.  There are times when I need to leave a situation right now. I need to sit alone in a dark room or huddle in a corner. Those feelings come suddenly, and without warning.

My emotional state is not what it used to be. I used to be calmer, more even. My threshold for managing stress is definitely not what it used to be, and when I’m stressed I don’t have any way to handle it. I just feel like shouting or crying or running away.

Reacting poorly to stress – even in situations which others don’t find stressful – has inevitably affected my relationships.  My partner and I go for walks or bike rides fairly often, and what used to be an enjoyable pastime has become a landmine of potential stresses.  And I know that he tries, but it always quickly becomes clear that he doesn’t understand.

One time I just stopped and told him, “I’m anxious” He responded “sure” and asked what was going on.  I answered  truthfully: “I just need to stop.”

He said “Okay, fine”, but it was clear he was not okay with us stopping. He was restless and obviously counted each second that we were not in motion. Meanwhile, I glanced around, searching for somewhere safe. A fence or a tree to curl up against, somewhere small, somewhere quiet and away. Sometimes those places don’t exist in the moment you need them.

It’s upsetting to have to explain this kind of anxiety to my partner each time it hits. He always wants to know what’s wrong. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him I’m anxious and that I need a moment, it always takes him off guard. It’s hard to explain why one minute I can be perfectly fine and the next practically in fetal mode.

Story by anonymous, comic illustrated by Sarah Myer.