In late October of 1989, I was back in Leicester after recently starting my first year at college in York. I’d driven out to the countryside with one of my mates Adrian. A last-minute plan in which to further our night and surprise my girlfriend Tracey, who I knew was somewhere in North Kilworth at a party with her friends. There we were happily getting drunk as we wandered the village listening out for loud music, never in any doubt that we wouldn’t come across the right house.
It soon became apparent the night was over once our search failed, and it started to rain heavily. We made it back to my car soaking wet, where the drinking soon turned into dreaming of a warm bed, a notion that grew ever stronger the colder it became. By 1.50am we were driving along the abandoned stretch of road towards the village of Walcote. As it began to curve, I’d like to think I realised I’d hit the bend way too fast and braked hard - that I was in a protracted skid that went from left to right as I overcompensated the turn of the steering wheel and hurtled into two parked cars. The truth is, I didn’t react at all. There was no dramatic swerve, or loss of control. I simply ploughed head-on smashing into the first car and slamming it onto the next at close to 60mph.
There I was, face down on the cold and wet ground. Rising to my feet, I noted the clicking and flashing of the rear indicator as I looked at the twisted metal of my car. The driver’s door hanging ajar made me wonder how I’d ended up on the floor. I briefly thought about moving it, even fleeing the scene, before becoming momentarily fixated that my three-quarter coat was bearing down on me as my legs began to give way.
My car creaked and groaned as I slumped into its buckled wing and eased myself downwards, my back against the front wheel, my breathing short and rapid as if no amount of air was enough. I rolled back my head to see if it would help. The smell of the rain kept me there - I could feel it on my face, hear it drumming away on the car, and I could see it flicker past the street lamp - its orange glow blurring into to a brilliant yellow. My entranced gaze made way to an elongated whiter light, which was confusing. It was all around me and within my head to where the clarity of colours were so heightened with affecting happiness once I saw Tracey. Her hand in mine, smiling up at me, her eyes shining. I could feel everything, feel it all; the warmth of the sun, a gentle breeze, the scent of long grass, and the overhanging trees upon us as one. I was oblivious to everything except this, only it was fleeting.
As the lurking darkness began to seep its way through, a silhouette looming over me with a hand on my shoulder. I heard words I could not understand, and immediately I was much colder. The malty taste on my lips had become metallic from the blood now pooling in my mouth. The lingering shadows between which tiny fragments of glass sparkled as the tingling sensation throughout my body intensified. I touched my forehead and felt the blood flowing from me. My body was shutting down and no amount of force or will to keep my eyes open was going to prevent the thoughts of the inevitable, and yet I was calm and accepting.
I was unconscious for a long time, eventually drifting in and out whilst things happened to me and around me, it was all so vague and undefined. Disconcerted and scared, I didn’t want to acknowledge the stark brutal reality that was gradually returning to me. Unlike Adrian, who didn’t have a scratch on him, I had not been wearing my seat belt. I’d sustained multiple injuries; a linear fracture to my skull, deep cuts to my cheek and around my left eye, lacerations to my forehead, some of which had taken the skin clean away, so were not stitchable. I also had additional bruising to my abdomen and chest where I’d also fractured a number of my ribs.
Under the bright sterile lights, they pumped me full of fluids, patched me up, and discharged me in under 12 hours. I’d been given some packs of medication and a small leaflet about head injuries that advised plenty of rest, to eat light meals, and no alcohol for five days. I was told that should any symptoms such as blurred vision, vomiting, or seizures occur, to return to the hospital. I also had a sealed Police bag containing a vial of my own blood, and the paperwork forced into the pocket of my shirt. My jeans were too blood-stained to wear so they provided me with a pair of light grey jogging bottoms. I moved carefully to my feet, registering the fatigue in my muscles, the dull ache inside my head, and momentarily held my balance. On my way to the waiting room, I caught sight of my reflection in a part mirrored window and pawed at my face. Everything was numb. My head was wrapped in a thick layer of bandages and covering my left eye as if it were the only thing holding it together. My skin was almost translucent with little flecks of dried blood peppered across it, my lips pale and swollen.
The sharp pain across my forehead had me bow my head and knot my hands so tightly together that my knuckles turned white. I’d thought the worst was over, that the bruising and scaring were all I expected to deal with. Leaning forwards, I became dizzy and light-headed, not able to tell which fingers belonged to which hand. The floor and wall slanted towards each other, making the room seem surreal.
Tracey looked at me with wide dilated eyes as though there had been an immediate disconnect - like I was still crashing. I’d clearly crossed way over the line of what was acceptable behaviour, the self-inflicted guilt and emptiness were overwhelming. We’d both sat on the edge of my bed for what seemed like such a long time. She was understandably shocked, upset, and looked completely washed out. I’d literally kissed away every tear that had brimmed and splashed down onto her cheek the second she said, ‘I can’t even look at you’. She was pure to me, almost angelic against my battered self, and yet so far away that I couldn’t confess to her the pain or the extent of my injuries. I reached across the void to touch her lips gently, they moved and resonated with soft words: ‘Jay, you’ve got to take better care of yourself.’ I went to bow my head again, only this time she moved closer to me, framing my face with her palms gently. Her expression now strong and serious, forcing me to look into her.
I held her gaze and faintly offered, ‘It feels like it’s not me.’ Slowly her eyes began to glisten once more, a complete lost look in her eyes that no doubt mirrored mine. As she turned to one side I fell away, putting a hand out hoping, if only briefly, to lessen the disconsolation. When her hand took mine, it felt so undeserved that I was no longer good enough. We lay there, an even strip of light from the window across her face, eyes closed, her breathing coming softly onto my cheek. I watched intently as she fell asleep, fists clenched as if wishing the pain away too.
The fallout from the crash rippled its way through everything. The circumstances rightly alienated her parents as well as my own, that telling everyone I was fine and retreating to York seemed my only option, to distance myself. I really should have stayed and recovered. I had spells of vomiting and an unfortunate series of seizures, the first being the worst as I wasn’t aware enough to break my fall and ended up back in the hospital for further stitches. So isolated within, I was a complete wreck and I just wanted to be able to believe, for a time at least, that everything was going to be alright, even if it wasn’t.
In the months that followed most of my physical injuries healed relatively quickly. Only, I was left with vivid dreams of the crash that disturbed my sleep for quite a time, and I had terrible headaches - far worse than any I’d ever experienced before. I wasn’t really registering or retaining much, it was as though I was being pulled along by an outside force. My responses to things were often at odds, occasionally erratic, and my moods would change without warning, I’d become irritable, anxious and withdrawn, and I could easily fall into such a deep sense of sadness without knowing how, when, or where it came from. Not able to see the extent to which I wasn’t myself - I didn’t know, not until many years later, that I’d suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI) to my frontal lobe. Unfortunately, back then there was no awareness of this type of injury, no warnings of what to look out for, no understanding of the impact on emotions and behaviour.
My inability to comprehend what was happening led me to self-destruct, especially once I started drinking again when I’d expected it to bring my spark back. The very last thing I wanted to do was to pile on more hurt to those closest to me, but that is exactly what I did. Don’t get me wrong, I was never perfect, I’d always been rebellious, impulsive and often reckless; I was young after all. But I was also, funny, bright, high-spirited and full of energy and life. Now there was an overiding darkness to me where fatigue, anger, and melancholy resided. I couldn’t process it all, let alone talk about it, and I couldn’t just pull feelings out of myself. Tracey tried so hard to get through to me, and despite returning moments of happiness and a growing togetherness I wasn’t there enough, even when present. It was so completely tangled that, in the end, it broke the relationship.
Having gone from being so profoundly happy to such a low within a short space of time, and carrying a weight of regret for what I’d caused beyond myself, I didn’t think I could feel any worse than I already did, that somehow it would be freeing. A month later, when I reached my lowest point when there was only me there to see that things had gone too far, I got the wake-up call I needed. Regardless of how I felt I made changes, I stopped drinking, over-medicating, focused on college, created achievable goals, and - for the first time - planned for my future. It was tough, and it was more than another year before I adapted and started to be closer to myself again. I’d only hoped that there was some way back to Tracey, but it just didn’t work out like that. Whenever I saw her she was happy, now in the arms of another in a different place. Besides, I couldn’t help but think my biggest mistake was going to keep her there.
It’s easier now to look back, to see how I’d lost the best of myself, make sense of it all and acknowledge its permanence. I just wished I’d have known at the time when it could have made a difference, allowed for understanding, and saved a lot of confusion and heartache. Nothing though can change the fact I was responsible the moment I put down the whisky and turned the key.
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I wrote this as part of my rehab, yet I am still struggling as to whether I should contact Tracey to let her know the truth about my TBI, or just let it be?
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