The Weight of Invisibility

I am by my canoe, having just shouldered my pack, bending to take the load, my damaged balance system trying to understand that I am suddenly bigger and a different shape with a different centre of gravity. I am planning to climb a narrow, uneven trail up and then down to the next lake.  It goes better than I expected, perhaps because the weight on my back is both crushing and constant.
My brain, since my injury, has struggled with uncertainty and there is nothing more certain than a pack full of food and cooking gear pressing down on the shoulders and spine. The reality is undeniable, as is the task. The pack has to be carried to the next lake or there will be no way to cook and nothing to eat.
In my worst moments in the city, a sidewalk with a gentle slope can make my head spin. My brain, overloaded by speeding cars and whizzing bike couriers can struggle to cope with even a slightly tilted surface. But the wilderness is different. I savour the stillness. My brain, with fewer moving objects to track and less motion to process, benefits from having a lighter cognitive load. Even with the massive pack on my back.
My brain can’t always cope, however. I am damaged in a way that cannot be seen.
On this trip, I have encountered others with more visible injuries, out in the wilderness seeking healing or defiantly demonstrating their abilities. On the shore of one lake, there was a woman in blue pants and a crisp white shirt. She was confidently striding out of the woods and towards the water, paddles in hand. She had one leg and a very efficient-looking prosthetic.
On this lake, I spotted someone else overcoming different challenges. She was pale and thin, carefully wrapped head to toe in white. A cancer survivor, I guessed, keeping her distance from others. We nodded but did not speak.
I am just starting up the trail when another woman comes around the bend. She has a significant pack on her back, not as big as mine but big enough that she is no doubt grateful to be at the end of her journey. We stop to swap information about the trail and the bugs. As one does. I enjoy meeting others in the backcountry, a brief connection to another human with similar passions before slogging off in search of isolation.
Our conversation is short and pleasant but it’s one more thing for my brain to cope with, one more bit of cognitive load on top of the pack, the slope and the uneven terrain.
We say our goodbyes. I start. I stumble. She laughs.
No one in the wilderness would laugh at the woman with one leg. No one on the trail would chuckle at the woman wrapped in sterile clothing. But my disability is invisible and so she laughs. Not in a mean way. A natural, quick gulp of amusement, unrestrained.
I didn’t fall. It was a slight stumble, a clumsy moment caused by a concussed brain and no physical harm was done. But the laughter stings. Still.
My point here is that for people with concussions or other brain injuries compassion, assistance or even understanding isn’t automatic.  People can be judged as drunk or drugged or clumsy when in reality they are simply suffering, the cause invisible.
It’s an extra burden. One that cannot be easily put down.