Coffee Shop Confessional

Have you ever ignored your better judgment? Disregarded that little voice in the back of your mind?

Maybe someone is waiting for your decision, and you feel the pressure to immediately act, when you would rather think about it. You suspect you are making the wrong move, but you do it anyway.

Eight years a traumatic brain injury survivor, I view all choices with the utmost caution. I have paid the price time and again for poorly made decisions, pushing my brain and body too hard. And I suffer afterwards.

No matter how thoughtful I try to be, I found myself there again recently.

My friend Michelle (a stroke survivor) was eager to get me out of my home. I had become homebound lately, easily going over a week without leaving the street I lived on. It was less challenging for my brain, which made me less symptomatic. Having less symptoms gave me better mental health.

Even though this was the easier path, it was not necessarily the right one.

When Michelle suggested meeting at a local coffee shop, I mentally listed everything that made me nervous - loud conversations, the busy street, and glaring fluorescent lights. She was adamant, though, and I eventually gave in.

When the day arrived, Michelle and I wound our way through the room, cramped with tables and chairs strewn about. There was clearly no thought for people with mobility issues, but she maneuvered patiently with her cane. I felt bad about complaining. If she was willing to struggle her way through, why wasn't I?

Almost immediately, I began to develop a headache. Floor to ceiling windows flooded the room with natural light. Even so, cheap fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered overhead. Michelle immediately stood up again and navigated to the light switch. The obnoxious buzzing ceased.

We were ten minutes into our visit when a group of men came in. All senior citizens, they seemed to be a tight-knit group of regulars. Upon sitting down next to the windows, the noon sun shining brightly on their table, one of them issued a loud complaint about the lack of lights. Michelle smiled and explained that I was recovering from a traumatic brain injury, and that the lights would cause me a migraine. She thanked them for their patience as I slowly tried to reacclimate into society.

Her remarks were met with a loud snort of derision, followed by the exclamation, “That's bullshit!” We both sat, horrified, as he continued. There was a lengthy rant that held years of frustration. He had gotten a TBI in the ARMY decades before, with no ill effects. The attention TBI patients were receiving “these days” was all based on lies. He went on to claim the patients were faking their symptoms to get handouts and attention.

I sat quietly and waited to see what would transpire. Before my accident, I would have met his words with my own, ready for a confrontation. Now, I hid behind my dark sunglasses. I had become used to this kind of treatment and found not speaking back was the easiest way to end the situation. My injury was termed an “invisible disability.” There were no clear outward signs. And becoming invisible in society was exactly how I survived.

Michelle, however, was not used to this treatment. Her disability was visible, her cane a signal to all that she had survived trauma. She tried to reason with him, but all her thoughtful statements were met with obstinate remarks or rude noises. He was comfortable in the opinion that he had held for so long. No words from us would change it.

Eventually, she noticed how uncomfortable I was. “I’m leaving now,” I stated loudly. “I’m clearly not welcome here.” We slowly wove through the room. The man and his friends avoided our eyes, carefully staring at their coffee.

Out on the sidewalk, I leaned against the building in relief. The stress had taken its toll. I was wobbly, nauseous, and headaches bloomed. “Well,” I said as I smiled, “That was an excellent boost for my mental health.” We stood there shaking our heads. “I think we can cross that place off the ‘disability-friendly’ list,” I continued, my voice finally breaking.

I confess, sometimes my hesitancy to go somewhere is because I am anxious about overdoing it and becoming ill. Other times, my hesitancy to do something is because I can see the risk is real. I saw the obnoxious lights, the maze of chairs, and employees who did not move an inch to help us. I walked into the environment through obvious signs it did not welcome disabled people.

It is hard to tell the difference between anxiety and a real threat. Disabled people deserve to be treated with dignity. But the truth is, I don’t have the mental energy to survive the outing and help people get over their own discomfort interacting with disabled people.

Not yet anyway.

 

   ~Sarah Scott