EACH STORY IS A LITTLE DIFFERENT OR A GREAT DEAL DIFFERENT BUT THERE ARE MANY COMMONALITIES. WE ARE FAILING PEOPLE AS WE FAILED MY NIECE AND AS THE SYSTEM IS NOW FAILING ME. I WAS SIMPLY SENT HOME SEVERAL DAYS AFTER AWAKENING FROM THE PROLONGED COMA AND LEFT TO SINK OR SWIMAS BEST I COULD – AND AS BEST I CAN STILL DO NOW. IT IS SOMETHING I FIND ALMOST – BUT NOT QUITE – IMPOSSIBLE TO WRITE ABOUT. Lynne.
When I returned to California, I brought my diaries into the backyard every afternoon and read them through sequentially, with the hope of learning more about the years before my brain injury.I remembered much of my professional life and whatever additional information I needed could usually be found in my constantly vandalized Wikipedia page. Here was the story of an awkward, imperious child prodigy who made his own films and became famous much too early; a music explainer (on radio and in print) who won a Pulitzer prize; a driven and obsessive loner whose fascinations led to collaborations with Glenn Gould, Philip Glass and Thomas Pynchon and to a large role in the revival of the American novelist Dawn Powell. In 2000, at the age of 45, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome: in retrospect, the only surprise is that it took so long.But the diaries promised a more intimate understanding. Reading them was slow going, and I felt as though my nose was pressed up against the windowpane of my own life. The shaggy-dog accretion of material — phone numbers, long-ago concert dates, coded references to secret loves –- all seemed to belong to somebody else. In my lawn chair, I flipped through the pages, distracted by everything, as the hours passed blankly and it was time to