Mini Brain Dumps

If you ever meet me in real life, be warned—I might end up trauma dumping on you. I don’t really intend for it to happen; it just kind of does. Most people are shocked by how casually I bring these traumatic experiences up in conversation.

One such story involves the time I was “run over” while sleeping in a tent.

Now, I use the term “run over” loosely here. It was more like I was pinned under a vehicle for a few seconds. Not nearly as dramatic as it sounds, but still pretty scary.

It happened at a country music festival when I was eighteen years old. I was working there and sleeping in the workers’ campground, which was more of an open field than an actual campsite. I had set up my tent along the perimeter, near the tree line, thinking it was a relatively safe spot. I guess I was wrong.

For most of the weekend, everything went smoothly. I worked, listened to karaoke booth singers, and even caught a few concerts. That is, until the last day.

Around 6:30 a.m., I was rudely awoken by the sound of a truck starting up. Annoyed, I glanced in the direction of the noise before rolling onto my back and closing my eyes again. I heard the vehicle’s transmission shift into reverse and the crunch of tires on rocks as it backed out.

Suddenly, I felt something touching my nose. My eyes flew open, and all I could see was the tent’s roof inches from my face. I tried to move, only to realize that my left shoulder wouldn’t budge. I was stuck.

The weird thing is, I don’t remember feeling any pain at first. At least not immediately. People say it’s because of the adrenaline or shock. They’re probably right.

I waited, feeling like an eternity passed, for the driver to shift back into drive and move off of me. The tires rocked back and forth as the driver switched gears, and finally, the vehicle released its grip. I waited as the truck slowly lurched forward, and my tent’s roof expanded in front of me.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, so I took a deep breath to calm my rapidly fraying nerves. After a few moments, I rolled onto my stomach and tried to push myself up onto my knees.

Instead, I found myself with a face full of pillow.

That’s when the pain finally hit. I rolled onto my side, clutching my shoulder as tears streamed down my face.

My shoulder felt like it was on fire, and the pain began to spread through my arm and into my chest. I took a few shaky breaths, trying to assess the damage. I flexed my fingers—they moved. Phew, no broken bones. I tried to circle my shoulders and they responded with little protest, further confirming that nothing was broken.

And then I sat there on my air mattress, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. I hadn’t exactly been run over before. The vehicle had left, and I had no description of who or what had hit me. I didn’t even have cell phone service to call my dad for advice.
So, I did the only thing I could think to do. I got dressed—albeit very slowly—and went to work.

The rest of the day went by in a haze of pain and confusion. Reality finally settled over me that night when I returned to my tent and realized how close the truck had come to running over my head. I had a panic attack before moving my tent to be pretty much inside a nest of tree trunks so that it was protected from all sides.

I ended up with a lot of nerve damage in my shoulder. I couldn’t feel three of my fingers for many months afterward. When the nerves regrew, it hurt a lot more than you’d think—almost like a burning sensation. But slowly, after a lot of massage and Graston treatments, the pain went away for the most part, and the feeling returned to my fingers. For those who may not know, Graston is where a person rubs metal tools across your skin to pop scar tissue. And yes, it is as bad as it sounds. It’s pretty much twenty minutes of pure torture. You’ve been warned.

Now, although it isn’t really a funny story, and I still suffer from pain in my shoulder (anyone else have chronic pain? IYKYK ), it’s an experience that has surprisingly enriched my writing.

Being pinned under a vehicle has given me a unique perspective on panic, confusion, and the challenges of recovery. It’s taught me to connect with my characters in their moments of struggle and frustration. And most importantly, it taught me the power of empathy against invisible struggles. Just because you can’t see pain, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Are there any challenges that you draw on for inspiration in your creative outlets?