There’s a particular kind of moment that I’ve come to recognise over the years. It doesn’t arrive with a bang. It creeps in.
It tends to happen in the most ordinary of settings — a meal out, a gathering with half a dozen conversations flowing at once. Nothing unusual. Nothing dramatic.
And yet, something begins to change.
At first, I’m absolutely fine. I can follow the conversation, contribute, smile at the right moments, keep track of who is saying what. It all feels perfectly normal.
Then, gradually, almost imperceptibly, the effort increases.
In a previous post, I described a counting-based strategy I use to get to sleep. When that approach began to lose its effectiveness, I tried something different.
Instead of numbers, I silently generated random, unconnected words, taking care not to repeat any of them. It felt lighter and less effortful than counting, and I wasn’t surprised to find that I could do it easily.
There are days when email feels like a friendly tool. A note from a friend, a reminder of something pleasant, a quiet nudge about a parcel in the post.
But more often than not, it turns into something far larger. For me, it often feels like a living creature — growing, demanding, and constantly calling for attention. One unanswered message becomes two. Two become twelve. Before long, the inbox stops being a place I visit, and becomes a shadow that follows me around the day.
Part of the difficulty is my brain injury and stroke. I no longer read, remember, and respond to messages in the effortless way I once did. If I skim an email and move on, there’s a fair chance I’ll forget it entirely. If I leave it unread, the number sitting in red starts to climb — and with it, a knot of anxiety tightens.
And the truth is, email isn’t just “email.” It’s:
appointments I mustn’t miss
bills that need attention
tasks that require thinking
parcels on their way
messages from people I care about
and endless newsletters that I never asked to receive
All of these live together in one place, and my brain struggles to tell them apart.
So the “email beast” isn’t imaginary. It’s the very real feeling that I am being asked to hold far more in my head than I have space for. And the cost — when things get missed, forgotten, or muddled — is frustration, guilt, and sometimes embarrassment.
But naming a challenge is the first act of taming it. In the next few posts I’ll share the methods, workarounds and habits that are helping me bring this beast to heel — slowly, gently, and in a way that suits the brain I now have.
Half a Mind to .. 