Wednesday, April 11, 2018


Sometimes, I think that I will never get back to my blog the way that I long to do so.  It has been a part of my life since a time when most folk didn't even know what the word "blog" was.  I am just so bloody overwhelmed that it is hard to do most everything.

I am reeling from what I think maybe I should call death by a thousand cuts because I keep getting less than good medical news, which means less than good financial news.  And I am still flattened by the realization of what my parents think of and about me.

So, I stumble through every moment and always fail to gather myself enough to write the way that I long to do so.  But.  But maybe I should try to just write.  As in, write what I can and post even if it is unfinished or error-filled or just not what it is that I set out to say.

I am losing my hair.  I laugh, bitterly, at the vague memory of all the early posts where my hair was falling out.  I raged at the hair in my hands.  I huddled in the corner of the shower (not that my shower had corners since it was in a bathtub).  I wailed to the world.  Now, I just cannot cobble together the words.

I washed my hair tonight.
This came away in my hands.

If you know me, then you know what this means to me.  No, wait.  You know a tiny fraction of what this means to me, of what my hair means and has meant to me.  So, you can begin to grasp the loss.  But there really are no words.

However, this isn't really what I meant to write or rather what I long to write.  To record.  To capture. To work through in the one way I truly know how to work through something.  To write.

I am triggered.

There I was, watching this seemingly non-triggering show and I realized that my entire being was trembling.  I was fighting an overwhelming urge to go shove myself into the corner of the closet upstairs because of the certainty that bad things were happening.  Now.

I do not know what triggered me or what it is that I am struggling not to relive.  Or reliving and struggling not to remain aware for the experience.  I could maybe try to ask myself questions, as if I were in therapy.  But I am not, actually, in therapy.  I am frozen to the corner of my sofa, cold and stiff with terror.  My pacemaker is going off willy nilly, not giving me a break because my body and mind are raging against one another.  Or maybe they are each trying to pull away, but have chosen different directions.

I don't know.
I don't know what is wrong.
And I don't know what is right.

I don't know what I want, other than for what is happening to me in this very moment to stop.  It it too late to call either Becky or Mary.  It is too hidden for me to try to help myself (not that I am even remotely in a place where I could help myself).

I am trying to at least capture this moment, but my body is now fighting me.  My eyes hurt so badly that I find myself closing them tightly against the pain.  In turn, this is causing a deafening roar in my ears from the tensor tympani muscle contracting.  I keep searching for the train that is not coming, yet my body knows is nearly upon me.

What a sound that only I can hear!

At least the thought is a momentary distraction, a spate of time in which I am divorced from what my triggered self is doing, is experiencing.  SIGH.

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