There's something strangely freeing, almost exciting about finally, after almost a decade and a half, having a detailed description of what is actually wrong with my brain. I can't be gaslit and lied to anymore, it's there on paper, and I know exactly what is wrong and that how it affects me is without a doubt real.
But it's also terrifying, to be faced with direct, undeniable truth. To be told "these parts of your brain are missing", "there are physical scars on these parts of your brain that will never heal". It feels more real than just "moderate brain damage", in a way that I'm not sure I ever expected to hear. No longer can I tell myself that it can't be that bad, that the reason I never got the appropriate treatment is because it's practically nothing and I'm overreacting.
It's also sad, to think that by the time I know all of this, the window for the rehabilitation that I needed, deserved, is long gone. Medically, the information has very little use to me anymore. All it can really offer me is freedom, understanding, and cold fear. I was robbed of what could have been by a system that is built to gaslight its patients, by doctors who lied to my face about the images right in front of them and subjected me to over half a life of trauma. I finally have closure, but it's so, so bittersweet.
