My whole life, all I wanted to do was to work with kids and help change their lives for the better. I played college football so I could get my degree and work in education to help kids. I wasn’t the best student, but I knew football could put me in a position where I could control my circumstances after college.
I played hard to earn and keep my scholarship. During my career I suffered multiple concussions that I wasn’t aware of. I was negligently put back into games, which only made things worse. I was playing through concussions that I didn’t remember or understand. At one point, my dad had to leave the stands and step in to tell trainers to keep me out of the game.
I’ve been through it all after my football career ended. I have experienced the lingering effects of multiple concussions. I’ve developed epilepsy, which induces grand mal seizures. These seizures are unpredictable, scary, and immensely painful. My shoulder would dislocate so often during these seizures that I had doctors drill a titanium screw in my shoulder to keep it in place. I’ve also had laser ablation surgery to get my seizures under control. Doctors have told me I’ll never be epilepsy-free, but my seizures are less severe and less frequent than they used to be.
I’m ecstatic with where I am now in my life and the control I’ve gained over my mental health, but it wasn’t always this way.
Football was supposed to be my gateway to the life and career I wanted. I always had the energy and passion to work with kids and help others. But suddenly, I didn’t want to be around anybody. All that passion was gone.
I had no sense of control. I couldn’t control my seizures, my memory, my anger, my depression, or any aspect of my mental health. As a result, I couldn’t accomplish any of the goals that used to be important to me. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t be the father I dreamed of being. I had lost control - and there is no scarier feeling.
Think about driving a car. If suddenly you lost control of where the car is going or how fast it’s going, something tragic would happen to you or to others. But if someone sees you driving a car towards them, they would be very scared. That’s exactly how I felt. I couldn’t control who I was, and the outside world couldn’t understand my reality.
My spiral out of control led me to the brink of homelessness. I had lost the people who could support and take care of me. I decided to take control of my life, my narrative, and the man I wanted to be.
The first thing I could control was getting medical care. I met doctors who believed they could help me. The surgery helped get my seizures in check, but there wasn’t a surgery to help my declining memory or my lack of emotional stability. To help navigate my new world, I learned the power of communicating what I was going through.
I couldn’t control my symptoms, but I could control how much people knew about them. It’s very hard to admit you have an invisible injury and open yourself up to the judgment that might come from that. But I learned that explaining my brain injury history allowed people to accept me in a different way. By explaining how I might have the occasional seizure or outburst or how I might struggle to remember things, people could meet me where I was.
Once I could communicate my situation, I found gracious employers who accepted me and the problems I face. My current employer, Rivian Electric Adventure Vehicles, allowed me to work. They respected my reality, valued me for who I am, and developed protocols for how to respond if I had a seizure so I could become a productive individual in society.
