In a group I belong to for people who have suffered from Persistent Post Concussion Syndrome (PPCS, a form of TBI), there was a question from a member about whether we have a hard time listening to new music. Almost all of us in the group said yes – our brains no longer process the cacophony of new sounds that occur in succession and/or simultaneously in any musical piece. But interestingly, most of us have said that we can listen to familiar music – our all-time favorite songs. Still, we can only listen to music for a limited time before the pain and fatigue set in.

In my case, it’s been 3 years since the accident, and I can now put on Spotify with pop music or something similar for, 30 minutes or so. Although in the car I can’t. Listening to soft piano music or other quiet instruments, especially if it’s low-pitched, I can do almost always. In fact, a few days ago I created an a cappella playlist. Less drum and more voice.

At first, it wasn’t like that. In my quest to appear socially “normal,” I put up with music, conversation, and other sounds that caused me pain. But little by little, I realized that I had to listen to my body and respect its signals. And so began the year without music.

Music had previously been a balm for any situation. Now it was a source of pain inflicted on my nervous system. Do you know what it feels like when a pile of plates or cutlery falls on the floor and your heart jumps? Well, that’s the feeling I had with almost every sound, even the most subtle ones.

In our house in a new town, with only 1-2 hours of online work a day, my husband at a job 40 minutes from home, and me without friends yet… and without being able to enjoy the most mundane at-home entertainments – podcasts, music, and television, I began to experience what silence is. Actually, ‘silence’ is the sounds of feet on the floor, of sneezes, of the shower (the sound of water also caused me pain), of birds, of cars on the street two blocks from the house, of the wind, of dishes, of the dog barking to go outside, of the dishwasher, of the washing machine, of the microwave. It was hard for me to tell him, but my husband’s voice was also very harsh to me. Eventually I said something, then for a long while we spoke in tones just above whispers.

In true silences, you also constantly hear the hum of nothingness. The skull itself is a space that contains neurological activity, and whether it was that activity or some misunderstanding between the ears and reality I don’t know, but the constant, low noise, when one tries to escape the sound almost drove me crazy at times. (Hint: I started listening to ‘red’, ‘pink’, ‘white’ noise on Spotify to calm this buzzing before sleeping and it helped me a lot.)

They say that human beings run away from silence because in it we find ourselves. In my case, yes. I found myself with a very lonely person and I saw that deep down, without being able to produce, work, contribute, I felt totally despicable. After a tough time of emotional decline and deep despair, I found myself on a path of self-acceptance…long, long, and hard, hard. I think it is the work of a lifetime, but this time of TBI unexpectedly gave me a special time to dedicate myself to learning, by force, in this area.

In silence, I got to know my demons better. It took me 2 1/2 years to realize that instead of using my mental energy to beat myself up for not being what I wanted or expected myself to be, I could simply rest: rely on the love of the loved ones who stayed with me, and within that love I could see that I am worth something, whether I contribute to the household finances or not. I also learned that I could use my mental energy to enjoy beautiful memories. When I came to this epiphany, my life changed. During bad days, I began to spend time lying in bed and remembering beautiful moments of football, an ex-boyfriend who used to make me laugh a lot, academic achievements, gorgeous sunsets, and much more.

And the second most important silver lining of all this is that I have been able to connect with other people who experience similar difficulties to mine. For example, three new friends have sensory hypersensitivity, which they would not have told me about if it weren’t for my condition. And I can accommodate them in ways that I wouldn’t have understood how to do before. My mother suffers from Alzheimer’s. She lost most of her ability to speak recently, and the resulting silence in her life was something I can – in part – understand. And I have (it seems) been able to help her with the lessons I learned during my silence: enjoying the beautiful memories and connecting spiritually with loved ones. Finally, another older friend and I have been helping each other cope with depression and the feeling of being worthless without the energy and productive power we once had.

Last week, I was having a busy week. I was pushing myself to do more, produce more, read more, socialize more. And through the learnings of the year of silence, I realized that I needed to stop. And just be. Go back to my body and ask it for what it needed. It asked me to listen to my emotions and to rest. I did. Thanks to this time of rest and self-care, I have been able to relax, and then re-organize my priorities so that I can authentically connect with friends and write on this blog.

I leave you with a quote from Thich Nhat Hanh, whose wisdom guided me then and hopefully forever:

“There are days when you feel like it’s just not your day, and no matter what you do, everything is going wrong. The harder you try, the worse it gets. Everyone has days like that. At that moment, you have to stop everything, go home, and take refuge in yourself.

“Reorganize everything – your feelings, your perceptions, your emotions – they are scattered everywhere; it is a mess inside you. Welcome and embrace each emotion… Practice mindfulness and concentration, and organize everything inside you. This will help you restore your tranquility and peace.”

Photo from ‘Thich Nhat Hanh collective”: https://thichnhathanhquotecollective.com/2020/03/21/4366/