Last updated on 2022-08-12
Almost 4 years ago I was severely injured in an Uber car crash that left me with a traumatic brain injury that altered the very course of life as I had always understood it. It altered me in ways that even almost years later I may never understand because I can no longer process information as I once did. On that night, I got into an Uber car in Mississippi on my way to a movie event across state lines in Atlanta (I was weary of flying alone at the time so I opted for a ride instead.)
This is the first time I have ever spoken about what really happened.
I never imagined that Uber ride would single-handedly rewrite my very existence. I was happy once; very perky, thirsty for knowledge, and eager to see anything I could in the world. Those feelings were taken from me. I’ll never forget his name or what he looked like or the phone calls. I was desperate to get out of Mississippi because I didn’t know my way around and instead of realizing red flags were going off I got into the car with an Uber driver who had been drinking and driving.
That last part is something that haunts me even today asleep or awake. Fearful of speeding cars; scared to get into vehicles with strangers, and at times I will purposefully choose to walk almost everywhere. The idea of being in a car with someone I don’t know or don’t understand is the most terrifying thing I can possibly imagine. It later led to the discovery that as a result of the brain injury I have PTSD that I now must live with for the rest of my life.
When this first hit Twitter years ago many thought I was the one driving. I was not. The driver involved in the crash swore he was okay to drive despite having several arguments on the phone with what I later learned was his wife who was quite angry he was going across state lines that late at night. Add in the fact he had an open bottle of booze in the car hidden in front of his leg and in a cup it was a recipe for a disaster I didn’t know I had walked right into.
I’ve always been one to mind my business and usually have headphones on. In this case I briefly dozed off it would be one of my final memories before I blacked out. About 30 minutes into the ride we spun out; he hit 5 different cars, and we crashed into an interstate sign in rural Mississippi. The only memory I have which haunts me in my sleep even four years later is my head slamming against the left backseat window and door. I briefly remember before falling unconscious cars stopping; I did emerge from the vehicle delirious and vomiting.
By the time State Troopers arrived I was already unconscious in the backseat and being whisked into an ambulance. For a period of time I remember laying there on the gurney in the ambulance as if I were looking back at myself because all I could see was a very strong light. I woke up in a hospital with no memory of who I was prior to waking up; having to be reintroduced to people I knew before, and even myself. Then and even now each night when I go to bed unless I document the day I had it is as if someone presses the reset button and by the time I wake up I have no memory of what I did yesterday. There’s a movie like that it’s called 50 First Dates.
It’s gotten somewhat better but that is mostly because I document everything. I dislike change. There are weeks and sometimes even months that I do the same thing day in and day out because it is the only thing that I remember how to do.
The crash is the only memory I have of myself before the crash entirely. There are long periods of my life that are now blacked out. Periods of my life and memories that I will never regain because an Uber driver decided to drink and drive.
I’ve hidden this part of me for so long because the world isn’t a kind place. I hid it because for many years I was on the run from an abusive family; an unhinged biological mother, and a world that had always had been stacked against me. I could do no right; my health didn’t matter, my existence didn’t matter. I am tired of living in the shadows. At 27 I am now free and I am hiding no more. My name is Mohammed though many of you know me as SHK. I am a disabled man suffering from PTSD and a traumatic brain injury that later resulted in major depressive episodes.
One of the biggest reasons I hid this from the public in its entirety is because of my biological mother who has weaponized or attempted to weaponize any and everything against me in an effort to force her way back into my life. I have cared for myself since 17 years old I am almost 30. I may not be able to remember much about my life early on but I am grateful for the fact I did what I had to do and pulled through otherwise these newspapers probably wouldn’t exist. They wouldn’t exist because I intentionally have a will designed to have them destroyed when I die to prevent them from falling into the hands of my former family; my biological family, and anyone associated with them. They will not profit off of anything I have ever done for as long as I live and even after I die.
This is my truth. This is who I have now become at no fault of my own at the fault of someone else. Like many of you I too have experienced medical racism. The memory is foggy but during that ambulance ride I repeatedly told the paramedic that I was not okay and that my brain really hurt. The last thing I remember him telling his colleague is that I was faking it and that nothing was wrong.
Two weeks later a doctor in Atlanta diagnosed me with a traumatic brain injury and told me that the chances of my recovery were slim to none. 4 years later my memories before this time and much of my childhood remain missing. A heartbreaking truth about that is that I have a brother who I barely remember as a result of the crash.
I proved them wrong though. 4 years later despite my fears and struggles I now live a happy life working; playing, living, and writing. Many of you have asked why this newspaper is so important to me it is simply because this very newspaper and my love for it has saved my life time and time again. In recovery (and I am still in recovery even today) I’ve spent countless hours just writing; investigating news stories, following tips, even meeting some of you in person. It is something that brings me tremendous joy.
Somehow something out there helped me survive that crash and wake up from the injury. PTSD is absolutely no joke. It is one of the worst struggles I have ever experienced. I don’t know much about support groups out of fear of being judged but I wish I did. The world is such a cruel place that admitting to a mental illness some then see you as less. Some see you as invaluable or somehow broken.
I am not broken. I am just in a state of repair. If anyone out there has recommendations for good support groups online or in person that would mean the world. It took me several years to admit these things to myself and learn to live with them. It took me several years to no longer blame myself for having gotten in that car.
It took me several years to come to terms with the idea that I deserved to live just like anyone else. Over time I’ve attempted suicide numerous times because the struggles with PTSD are sometimes far too much to handle alone. There isn’t allot of help out there. I’m often told because you can’t physically see that I have problems that they must not exist. That somehow my problems don’t matter because I don’t wear them like a new pair of shoes.
As time goes on I’m going to use parts of my column to draw attention to PTSD and the plight of others because I now know that I am not alone. There are others like me. Lots of others.
I’m not sure I believe in a higher power, but something unannounced to me, is the reason I survived that car crash. Whatever that something is out there I owe it everything because even with my present day problems my lust for life is stronger than ever.
I’m still new to the idea of seeking help but if you or someone you know out there suffers like I do there is help. Click here for more information and to speak to someone confidentially and for free.
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