If I had my own show, I could share my story. The real true story. Not the tabloid stuff. How having a brain injury isn’t the end of the world, in fact just the opposite. I have never been happier. I have learned to keep things simple. I am sober. I have my family, my sister Emme, a community, and Tommy, my love of the last two years, a talented woodworker and carpenter whose Koa bowls and paddles are displayed throughout the islands and whose ten-year-old son, Jessie, stays with us every other week. We both volunteer at a food bank and twice a week at the nature preserve. Wouldn’t that bring people hope? Isn’t that an important message to share?

But a reality show would mean opening our home and exposing our private lives. Tommy might consent, but we wouldn’t want his son involved. And what of sweet Emme? The network would perceive her quiet nature as boring. They’d want to exaggerate her personality. Make her uber-nice in contrast to my sarcasm and edge. The fat to my skinny. Stable to my wacky. And they would want to film Merilee. That would present all kinds of problems. She might stay dry for a day or two, but eventually, she would be on camera slurring her words or passed out on the couch. It would be hard to find an entertaining or humorous angle for that. She’d just be humiliated. Merilee is no Ozzie Osbourne.

There is also the practical matter of the time it takes me to do simple things; put on a sweater or walk from the living room to the kitchen. I still struggle to form the words I need to express myself coherently. Yes, I have found love and contentment, but can anyone stand still long enough for me to tell them? The network would take one look at the footage and edit my stutters and slow way of speaking into soundbites and quick-cuts that would condense and repackage my wonderful life into a fucking freak show.

Not to mention the paparazzi.

Our neighbors would be hounded by television crews, our peaceful paradise forever invaded.

I got up in a cold sweat, went back to my computer, and emailed Penny.

“Please do not let me know of any more offers. Ever. I am no longer available for work.”

But I sent and unsent the message five times before I let it go through.