Just call me Harriet Potter. Or Air-headed Annie…
The only thing I lost during my brain surgery years was the majority of my sight in my right eye. There are days where I suspect the blindness is slowly getting worse. If I had only known how much insanity that “oops” on the operating table would bring through the last decade, I may have reconsidered my nonchalant attitude about it all.
I now have a one inch scar in the middle of my forehead. People have tried to give reasons that sound heroic.. or at least understandable. I wish I had some kind of Wonder-woman reason behind this scar that dubbed me Harriet Potter by those who dare. I wish.
But no. I got my scar because 3 weeks ago, I ran into a sign that was maybe two inches taller than I am and it cut my forehead. Yep. You read that right. I. Ran. Into. A. Sign. I have a brain. I left it somewhere.
But here’s the thing, I didn’t see it! Promise. Not kidding. Had no idea there was an inanimate object awaiting me for torture. None.
I’m trying to decide what was worse; not seeing the sign in the first place or not having enough feeling in my body to know I had cut my forehead. My head was bleeding like a death wound. This is why people don’t call me graceful when they’re trying to be nice. Sweet. Fun. Cool. Those words are acceptable. Graceful is just too much of a lie.
I’ve never had to really think about the dangers behind going blind before. I know for a fact people are learning how to Cassie-proof my surroundings simply because they don’t want to witness another anticlimactic “She’s an odd one” moment.
This is my life. I am an adult, but my insanity is taking over. Oh well, Honey. Laugh anyway. (The laughter may or may not convince your audience that your insanity is not permanent.)