Every dancer relies on that almost-magical connection between their mind and body to authentically express their truth. But what happens when a brain injury severs that important tie? Read how Joe’s NeuroNerd podcast co-host, Lauren, opens up about a traumatic accident that sidelined her life in order to heal, recovering both her health and her dance again.
One year ago, I was on a personal high: I had just medaled in the U.S. National Pole Championships, a big New York City publishing house was showing interest in my fantasy fiction novel, I had multiple real estate deals in process, and I was in the best physical shape of my life. On my way to a client’s open house, I watched in my rearview mirror as a car plowed into the back of mine in the middle of a busy freeway; I had slammed my head hard enough that I was disoriented for hours.
At first, I brushed it off—it was whip lash, it was stress from dealing with the insurance company, it was insomnia from all of my projects. It was not until I was teaching a belly dance class three days later that I started babbling, I lost vision in my right eye, and I ended up vomiting the moment I got home from the most head-splitting headache I had ever had. The reality of a traumatic brain injury quickly became clear. My doctor told me to take time off from training (I was dancing, teaching, and training 6-7 days/week) and “try not to think.” I laughed. He leveled me the most serious look and said, “No, try not to think, don’t read, or talk too much.” I was floored. I’m a writer. I’m a teacher. All I do is think, read, and talk. I soon found out that the 24-hour marathon migraines were real, the pickaxe-like spasms in my head from opening my email were real, and the difficulty to focus while driving was real.
My recovery was slow, and it got worse before it got better. After four months, my physical symptoms tapered off, but I found my weight creeping up and my strength slipping away. My ability to handle stress dissipated to almost nothing. I started having anxiety attacks and felt my self-confidence dwindle.
I wish I could say I found solace in my dancing, but I didn’t. It instead became a constant reminder of what I could no longer do. I felt so isolated in my misery. I felt betrayed by my own body for limiting me in every way it could—working on that Russian Layback into a Brass Bridge on spin pole? Not anymore. That 180 degrees split? Poof! Can’t focus long enough to relax into the stretch. Tell my teacher how much I’m really struggling? Yeah, right. I often ended up in a ball on the floor, fists clenched and tears of frustration blurring my vision that I refused to let fall. What the hell was wrong with me?
By this time, the publishing house was incommunicado and my real estate deals had ended disastrously. I’d hastily penned an email to Pole Sport Organization and withdrew myself from the Pacific Pole Championships; that was the first time I ever withdrew from anything and I was ashamed. I still taught and coached, forcing my enthusiasm for my students, but I would freak out on the drive home. Who was this person, because I sure didn’t recognize her?
After a particularly serious bout of anxiety that resulted in me curled up, black mascara streaking my cheeks, and a furious googling session, I discovered Post-Concussion Syndrome. The healing of a traumatic brain injury is anywhere from six months to three years, with a frightening number of psychological issues attached. A sense of relief filled me when I realized I wasn’t crazy; my brain was just healing. Suddenly, having a logical reason for my irrationality gave me permission to allow patience and kindness for myself without guilt.
I felt like I could take a deep breath again while stretching or in my tricks, even signing up for a new challenging pole class. My pole free-dancing began to feel less like a battle and more like the therapeutic outlet I needed, full of tears and laughter. I looked at my calendar and declared my intentions to compete in the 2017 regional and national PSO competitions. I could dance again.
It was 11 months after my injury that I was driving home after teaching and gushing on the phone to a friend about this new idea I had for a dance show—fusing heavy metal, hip hop, and dance styles. She interrupted me mid-sentence and with a gentle voice said, “You know, this is the first time you sound like yourself in a year.” My reaction was immediate; sitting in traffic, I broke down crying because it hit me—she was right. It was the first time I felt eager and excited for something instead of dread and apprehension. My creative juices were flowing without judgement or doubt. Dance was no longer the grim reminder of how far I had fallen off-track but my source of inspiration.
Am I 100% recovered? No. I still struggle with random anxiety attacks, my decreased stamina, and I’m far more timid than I have ever been. Even working on this piece stirred up some apprehension—the thought of publicly telling people Hey, this is what not-SLAYING looks like is a scary thought.
However, I learned lessons I might not have gotten to for a bit without it. Healing is a process that takes time, no matter how much I wish it didn’t. I can make peace with my momentary diminished physical skill and mental capacity with the realization that this is temporary.
And quite possibly the biggest epiphany I had led to this entire interview: there is strength and positivity in vulnerability. As a dancer, my truth is expressed when I am present, honest, and open. Authenticity only shines when one is willing to put themselves out there, including the not-whole pieces, and brave the world. I am embracing this step in my journey with as much love and patience as I can to grow stronger. If my experiences and my subsequent sharing of them can help even one person know they are not alone in their struggle, that they too are not crazy, or that they too can be vulnerable, then it makes everything worth it.
To continue to follow Lauren’s journey, follow her at @laurenlmanzano on Instagram, @tankbbg on Twitter and connect with her on the YouSoRock Facebook Support Group at https://www.facebook.com/groups/yousorock.
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