We live in the age of the 24 hour news cycle. With 24 hour news networks and faux news networks, there is something newsworthy to report 24 hours a day 7 days a week or so we're led to believe. I live a concept similar to the 24 hour news cycle. Since pain deprives me of sleep so often yet it doesn't do quite the same to others, I live days that are objectively twice as long as those lived around me. Subjectively, the ratio feels a lot worse than 2-1. The boredom is almost as bad as the pain sometimes.
My strategy is to live intensively instead of extensively. Well, I have to do both in order to avoid the boredom/agony issue but I like to cram as much writing and/or gaming into an hour or two. After that, I get to be awake for the next 20 hours without the ability to do much. When I saw unable to do "much," please keep in mind that TV watching can be exhausting. A day when I can complete a game of "Madden Football" is rare and exciting. Blog posts are few and far between because I lack sustained energy. The struggle to avoid boredom over a 24 hour day and the constant exhaustion it causes are the yin and yang of my life.
I was bitterly frustrated that an old friend has had no time for me after all. It had seemed as if we had both expended too much effort to give up. As usual, I am judging her too harshly. There was a time when I believed she could do no wrong. As long ago as that time was, I find myself clinging to fragments of that belief. Of course she'll have time for me. What sort of person works full time, cares for four children and doesn't have blocks of time to set aside for someone she hasn't seen in 20 years? If you had your sarcasm meter running, you would realize that no one is like that. I started to use words like dedicated but I realized that she is dedicated to the people who are part of her life today.
It's different for me. I find myself awake at 4 AM contacting people on a whim while neglecting others. The list of people whom I neglect on a high energy day like this is astounding. The frustrating thing is that I cannot learn from this and do differently. The vicious cycle of pain and boredom has reduced me to someone I recognize as a mere caricature of me. I am needy 24 hours a day and seven days a week.
The urge to write has been all but drained from me. This is where I draw the line. Writing is a big part of who I am. If I lose the use of my hands somehow, I'll invest in voice recognition software but I refuse to stop writing. My problem isn't so much physical at the moment. I have not had the urge to write in some time. It's something I want to do well and so my current lack of confidence isn't helping. The biggest obstacle right now may be the PC. After I get the energy to come upstairs and write something, I have to deal with memory issues by rebooting and making sure I don't leave anything running unless I'm using it at that specific moment. It feels as if I'm running out of energy just as I'm starting to write.
Then there is the mighty distraction machine known as Facebook. There are so many things I can do there to alleviate boredom during the couple of hours when I have energy. Very few of those nearly effortless things add value to the world but I am genuinely curious about the answers to the mysteries in certain games. I want to know what happened my miner character's equally fictional father but I can't wait eight hours to have "the workers" make the cheese to unlock the recipe to make the yogurt the game asked for months ago in real time. I've actually forgotten why I need to employ the jeweler much less why his workers insist upon eating yogurt before they will finish the job. I think I have about a thousand eggs sitting around but they are chicken eggs not the turkey eggs I need in order to unlock the yogurt recipe. I haven't written anything much less anything to further my fiction career but the cramps in my arms are becoming increasingly painful. Eep! I just lost my wall that I keep up to prevent there mere background pain from making me go cringe and attempt to sleep.
There's another source of pain that I try to keep locked away but it has worked its way out through the secret doors and hidden passages of my heart. Well, let's say that there are two secret sources but the grief, anger, hurt and doubt that thinking about my parents brings out is nothing new anymore. Perhaps my inability to keep thoughts of my parents locked away comes from this second source. There are times - often mere moments in a day - when I am horribly lonely. I think of moments in the past when I made real connections with people which provided joy or solace. It's awful how far in the past most of these moments actually are but that's not the real problem. People who shared such moments with me either repudiated me soon after or have made it clear that there is no path leading back to what is purely the past for them.
It's tough to remember that my duty as a friend is to accept their wishes no matter how silly I find them. That's often when the little kid in me leaks out and whines. "Are you so ashamed of the time spent with me that it's off limits talk?" We're not talking anything sordid here. I had conversations with people and have kept the content of those conversations to myself because that's what friends do. I would give so much to have more of those conversations but the unwillingness of others is far from the only barrier. If you've never met me, I don't think I could offer an adequate description of what it's like trying to have a conversation with me. Calling what I do when I get flustered stuttering is like calling a top of the line Porsche a car. It is factually accurate but fails to cover the scope of the thing utterly.
There was one time a few years ago when I read a book about meditation and spent some time doing more than my usual "slow down my brain so I can sleep" routine. I decided that the time had come to say goodbye to someone I hadn't seen in 20 years or so. At the time, I believed that everything would be okay if I could just thank her for being my hero when I was 14. She was a big reason why I managed ro hang on despite all the abuse at one of the most vulnerable times in my entire life. She was my friend so I had to be of some value no matter what my parents hinted at or said. Well, my point isn't to put her on some pedestal again. Even then, I was aware that she had flaws. She simply treated me like a human being unlike most people despite all the weirdness that generated from me.
In any case, I was writing about meditation. I wanted to tell her goodbye so I did what any little kid would do and built a scene in my mind. In that, I told her the things that I needed to say and I felt much better for quite some time. Since I was a young kid, there have been many times when I have needed to talk with a specific person but that person might as well have been on the moon. I could not simply call up a friend or, especially, an adult mentor just because my life was in crisis and I needed that person's input. I was told to make the best of it or whatever. At some point, I learned to have conversations entirely in my own head involving that person or what I knew of him or her.
Much of the time, the other person would help me work through the flaws in some plan or other that I had going. As I got older, the conversation involved talking me through the anguish of wanting to please my parents more than anything only to fail over and over. The mere fact that my father called me a such and such (for many different values of such and such) did not make me a such and such. The hours spent establishing the case against me as a such and such did not mean he was right because there was a flaw in the argument somewhere. The fact that there was a valid point or two in all of it did not extend beyond the value of those specific points. I did not have to pass judgment on myself for being a such and such just because he said so.
In recent days, the other person has been Melissa while she's on a long work day. The self esteem that had to fall back on that friend from high school (If she wants to be my friend, then I must be okay.) has long since been replaced by my faith in Melissa. (Melissa loves me so I know I'm okay. The rest of the New York family loves me too so I must be worthy of being in a family.) I used to worry that I was crazy to do this but my favorite mental health professional told me there's nothing wrong with it personally then repeated it more than a few times in my head.
With so many barriers to the human contact I need, I should build the scene in my head. It would be one of those Fall days I used to love so much with the bright colors all over the trees. During the day, it would be comfortable shorts weather for me so everyone else would be wearing light jackets and jeans. Any warmer and bugs would work their way into the scene. We could throw a football around since it's my scene and I want to remember what it felt like having energy to burn in what my parents would call wasting time. If I bothered having a name for it, I'd call it an investment in enjoying my youth while it remained.
As afternoon became evening, we would get at least one cheerful campfire going. We'd all continue to enjoy each other's company through a meal that would change depending on my mood but chili sounds like a great idea as the temperature drops. Some people would disappear into tents earlier than others depending on how long they had been married. The rest of us (in this fantasy) stay out by the fire and talk about important things like love and loss, joy and heartbreak, triumph and tragedy and maybe even friends who were absent this time. Even while discussing the past, we'd have hope for the future. I don't want to believe that all the adventure of my life is in the past.
The scenery and conversation would change with the people involved. I could see myself in a room filled with smoke that, miraculously, doesn't cause cancer and a list of other bad things long enough to make Chiari ashamed of itself. We would discuss the important ideas of the day, how they relate to the past and how they might influence the future. We would relate to it all through visual arts, music and fiction.
It hurts knowing that I will never know people like that again. It hurts to feel cast out by the person whose opinion was once my source of personal validation. It hurts a lot less while I reach out and touch my memories. If I remember to touch these memories as they were, I might be better at handling those few minutes of agonizing anguish I get each day.
Maddie the cat is doing laps around the house stopping each time by to remind me that I would have less time to be lonely if I simply did what she asked and sat reclined in a chair with my feet up while utterly motionless the way a proper napping platform does. I would sleep but she doesn't realize that I dream.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Saturday, January 3, 2015
The Start of a Brutal Day
Yesterday, I slept for something like 14 hours while Melissa was at work. How did I manage that? I had been up for the previous three days trying to fit in with the visit from the New York family. I was very happy to see them though it might have been tough to see through the moaning and groaning. I like being around other people especially my dear family. It's just difficult to show since being around other people causes me terrible pain in and of itself.
Melissa and I watched "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" again. He's one of my all-time top two X-Men with the other being Cyclops. Unfortunately, the movie is a bit of a downer. Logan's girlfriend is murdered and he loses all memory of her. I guess it could be worse. Losing all memory of someone is terrible but you don't have to mourn the good times you've lost. I'm in the process of mourning the loss of an old friend who couldn't fit me into her life after all. No matter how little space I tried to take, it was too much. The good news is that I still have my memories of good times when my life wasn't this nice.
Part of me wants to laugh while the rest of me wants to scream in pain. I'm in agony every day and today seems to be a fresh hell but these are still the good days. I love Melissa and my beloved feels the same way about me. Unfortunately, she gets to work the closing shift tonight so it's just me and my memories. It's worse than that, of course. I've been in more pain than I can truly process since I got up last night. Maybe I slept on my neck wrong which would be one of those obnoxious ironies.
It's almost 10 AM and the sun is nowhere in sight. Weather like this on top of pain that reminds me of times I've been in the hospital is jolly good fun. I want the pain to stop so badly that it's difficult to think of anything else. Trying to focus on helping others is harder than it used to be. I was asked to help a friend of the family and so I did. For Chiarians, there is only one effective treatment which is surgery and that is not a cure. There was one fellow who was held up as the poster child for making a full recovery post Chiari surgery but he died suddenly a few years ago. Apparently, being in great shape and doing things like lifting your own weight over your head against doctor's orders is no perfect defense. I am always careful to note that I am no doctor so you should do what the doctor says if he or she disagrees with me. At most, get a second opinion from a second doctor.
Someone actually keeps track of certain vital statistics and we may have lost as many as 28 Chiarians from the various Facebook communities. Suicide was prominent among those numbers which scares the hell out of me. I was once the sort who took suicide in stride as an option in every day life but I've reformed. Once upon a time, I believed that my life influenced so few people that suicide was a tolerable option. The truth is that I'm pretty connected in this world. Some people actually find inspiration in my life just as I find it in their lives.
Last year, there was a moment when I was sure that I'd never make it alive. Robin Williams had killed himself. I suppose my angle on Mr. Williams is different from most. After a childhood of secrets that hurt everyone yet managed to stay "in the family," I tried to avoid looking at others as invulnerable. When someone acted as manic as Mr. Williams did, I found myself looking for the other extreme. My first reaction was that, if he couldn't make it with all of his resources, I was doomed. At one point, I actually asked an old friend who reminded me of Mr. Williams to keep going. He had been there for me in some of the very darkest of dark days and he stayed strong.
Since I didn't want to be doomed, I thought about Williams and his resources. His money was useless as a defense. All money can do is purchase goods and services. I thought about it and decided that personal relationships are so much more important. If you spend every moment of every day working and making money, there's a limit to the sort of relationships you can develop. I'm not being critical of his friends and loved ones here. I don't know them and I'm certain that there were plenty of exceptions to the rule I stated though it is a mere guess. More importantly, depression pushes you away from the things that help make you strong. You lose the joy in life as activities lose their meaning, you doubt everything about yourself and you believe all the wrong things about yourself.
I started to think about being in trouble personally. There is no cure for Chiari and I was losing ground bit by bit. One of the most important parts of my identity is that I am a writer. That has been in serious danger on a purely physical level. My writing routine involved getting up from the recliner or out of bed, drinking coffee, doing a little warming up and then writing until I was too sick to continue. It was so much more difficult when you can't sleep, you get up to drink your coffee and you don't even make it through the warmups before the coffee provides just enough energy to get to sleep.
The Chiari community and I had a major falling out as my frustration peaked. The conformity of it all was frustrating. "Is Symptom A a Chiari symptom?" The answer knowing little of the other circumstances is probably but check with your doctor. I didn't mind answering that one so much but then there was the question of why your local neurosurgeon isn't as good as the expert who performed my second surgery. Eventually, new patients who should have been asking to have their hands held turned against the experts. There was no solace for me in the Chiari community.
28 Chiarians lost in a year. If that's a reliable statistic, that's horrible. Once treated with surgery, Chiari is not fatal in and of itself. Of course, certain Chiari symptoms can be fatal. If you know anything about the brain's anatomy, you know that the brainstem is not the place where you want something to go wrong. It controls your autonomic functions like your heartbeat and, usually for Chiarians, breathing is a problem. You can have the usual obstructive sleep apnea from some part of the throat not working quite right or you can acquire central sleep apnea which is its very own symptom. Years of narcotic pain medication can harm your ability to breathe in your sleep.
Unfortunately, suicide remains a major cause of death. I'm trying to feel defiant right now but I hurt so badly. I would like to be wrong about today. I wish I were wrong but this day has shown me every sign of being a day long pain crisis. This sucks but I will feel some degree of better later. I will keep fighting because that's who I am.
Melissa and I watched "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" again. He's one of my all-time top two X-Men with the other being Cyclops. Unfortunately, the movie is a bit of a downer. Logan's girlfriend is murdered and he loses all memory of her. I guess it could be worse. Losing all memory of someone is terrible but you don't have to mourn the good times you've lost. I'm in the process of mourning the loss of an old friend who couldn't fit me into her life after all. No matter how little space I tried to take, it was too much. The good news is that I still have my memories of good times when my life wasn't this nice.
Part of me wants to laugh while the rest of me wants to scream in pain. I'm in agony every day and today seems to be a fresh hell but these are still the good days. I love Melissa and my beloved feels the same way about me. Unfortunately, she gets to work the closing shift tonight so it's just me and my memories. It's worse than that, of course. I've been in more pain than I can truly process since I got up last night. Maybe I slept on my neck wrong which would be one of those obnoxious ironies.
It's almost 10 AM and the sun is nowhere in sight. Weather like this on top of pain that reminds me of times I've been in the hospital is jolly good fun. I want the pain to stop so badly that it's difficult to think of anything else. Trying to focus on helping others is harder than it used to be. I was asked to help a friend of the family and so I did. For Chiarians, there is only one effective treatment which is surgery and that is not a cure. There was one fellow who was held up as the poster child for making a full recovery post Chiari surgery but he died suddenly a few years ago. Apparently, being in great shape and doing things like lifting your own weight over your head against doctor's orders is no perfect defense. I am always careful to note that I am no doctor so you should do what the doctor says if he or she disagrees with me. At most, get a second opinion from a second doctor.
Someone actually keeps track of certain vital statistics and we may have lost as many as 28 Chiarians from the various Facebook communities. Suicide was prominent among those numbers which scares the hell out of me. I was once the sort who took suicide in stride as an option in every day life but I've reformed. Once upon a time, I believed that my life influenced so few people that suicide was a tolerable option. The truth is that I'm pretty connected in this world. Some people actually find inspiration in my life just as I find it in their lives.
Last year, there was a moment when I was sure that I'd never make it alive. Robin Williams had killed himself. I suppose my angle on Mr. Williams is different from most. After a childhood of secrets that hurt everyone yet managed to stay "in the family," I tried to avoid looking at others as invulnerable. When someone acted as manic as Mr. Williams did, I found myself looking for the other extreme. My first reaction was that, if he couldn't make it with all of his resources, I was doomed. At one point, I actually asked an old friend who reminded me of Mr. Williams to keep going. He had been there for me in some of the very darkest of dark days and he stayed strong.
Since I didn't want to be doomed, I thought about Williams and his resources. His money was useless as a defense. All money can do is purchase goods and services. I thought about it and decided that personal relationships are so much more important. If you spend every moment of every day working and making money, there's a limit to the sort of relationships you can develop. I'm not being critical of his friends and loved ones here. I don't know them and I'm certain that there were plenty of exceptions to the rule I stated though it is a mere guess. More importantly, depression pushes you away from the things that help make you strong. You lose the joy in life as activities lose their meaning, you doubt everything about yourself and you believe all the wrong things about yourself.
I started to think about being in trouble personally. There is no cure for Chiari and I was losing ground bit by bit. One of the most important parts of my identity is that I am a writer. That has been in serious danger on a purely physical level. My writing routine involved getting up from the recliner or out of bed, drinking coffee, doing a little warming up and then writing until I was too sick to continue. It was so much more difficult when you can't sleep, you get up to drink your coffee and you don't even make it through the warmups before the coffee provides just enough energy to get to sleep.
The Chiari community and I had a major falling out as my frustration peaked. The conformity of it all was frustrating. "Is Symptom A a Chiari symptom?" The answer knowing little of the other circumstances is probably but check with your doctor. I didn't mind answering that one so much but then there was the question of why your local neurosurgeon isn't as good as the expert who performed my second surgery. Eventually, new patients who should have been asking to have their hands held turned against the experts. There was no solace for me in the Chiari community.
28 Chiarians lost in a year. If that's a reliable statistic, that's horrible. Once treated with surgery, Chiari is not fatal in and of itself. Of course, certain Chiari symptoms can be fatal. If you know anything about the brain's anatomy, you know that the brainstem is not the place where you want something to go wrong. It controls your autonomic functions like your heartbeat and, usually for Chiarians, breathing is a problem. You can have the usual obstructive sleep apnea from some part of the throat not working quite right or you can acquire central sleep apnea which is its very own symptom. Years of narcotic pain medication can harm your ability to breathe in your sleep.
Unfortunately, suicide remains a major cause of death. I'm trying to feel defiant right now but I hurt so badly. I would like to be wrong about today. I wish I were wrong but this day has shown me every sign of being a day long pain crisis. This sucks but I will feel some degree of better later. I will keep fighting because that's who I am.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
To Be Calm
There's a lot that I would give to be calm for a while. I've been agitated for so long that I have trouble figuring out what the trouble might be. My recent attempts to fight the good fight and recover from child abuse aren't helping. Connecting the dots is bound to kick up a lot of dust and make me notice a lot that I was used to ignoring. I'm supposed to be getting better but recovery is slow. It took 30+ years to get this messed up so my logical side knows that I won't wake up tomorrow with that Zen goodness. I don't actually understand much about Zen at all but all that calmness seems almost overdone. I want to replace this agitation with joy.
I can't get to sleep most of the time because my heart starts racing and I have trouble catching my breath. What have I done wrong now? I must get to sleep or I'll be exhausted for that thing I don't remember and no! That thing I can't remember is a fragment of a very short agitation dream. I doubt that I was asleep long enough to decide whatever it was that I was ruining. Right now, I'm agitated because I want to write something coherent here that will help me and a few others if I'm lucky.
It's not enough to have so many memories of my father telling me to move faster, faster and faster yet. Bathing and getting ready for bed turned into a race at one point because I was dawdling. Hurry, hurry, hurry and then get right to sleep. I suppose it worked some when I was a small child because I just conked out once I reached a certain point of tired. I read somewhere that it is perfectly natural for teenage minds and bodies to become more nocturnal around the high school years. My parents never accounted for that when they scheduled my life to be full from 8 AM to five or six PM. Of course, the article never dealt with the issue of how to get a full day's work in the fields (admittedly a gross exaggeration) out of someone who sleeps half the day away. They never admitted that this was an exaggeration of their own.
My "day" was centered around the giant yard I never wanted so one had to get up early to take advantage of the relative cool from dawn to noon. My alternate plan of working in the evening suffered from the great abundance of mosquitos. My days do still start early through I'm not supposed to count what I do in the mornings as work but that's what it is. I'm writing this as therapy for myself, as a friendly warning to my friends who are parents of young children and as what I'd call psychological first aid for those who suffered similar abuse in their childhoods.
There is an impulse to take down everything I've written and apologize. I try to be careful and refer to what I suffered as psychological abuse or mental abuse because I know I'm trained to think of horrific neglect and constant physical assaults as real child abuse. I was physically bullied by my father but never tortured the way some kids were. As a victim, it is far too easy to let your abuser set the definitions of right and wrong or abuse and proper behavior. They don't give out merit badges for surviving abuse. There is no pension for those who meet the criteria of an abuse survivor. In fact, the illogical but very real incentive structure promotes silence.
I can't get to sleep most of the time because my heart starts racing and I have trouble catching my breath. What have I done wrong now? I must get to sleep or I'll be exhausted for that thing I don't remember and no! That thing I can't remember is a fragment of a very short agitation dream. I doubt that I was asleep long enough to decide whatever it was that I was ruining. Right now, I'm agitated because I want to write something coherent here that will help me and a few others if I'm lucky.
It's not enough to have so many memories of my father telling me to move faster, faster and faster yet. Bathing and getting ready for bed turned into a race at one point because I was dawdling. Hurry, hurry, hurry and then get right to sleep. I suppose it worked some when I was a small child because I just conked out once I reached a certain point of tired. I read somewhere that it is perfectly natural for teenage minds and bodies to become more nocturnal around the high school years. My parents never accounted for that when they scheduled my life to be full from 8 AM to five or six PM. Of course, the article never dealt with the issue of how to get a full day's work in the fields (admittedly a gross exaggeration) out of someone who sleeps half the day away. They never admitted that this was an exaggeration of their own.
My "day" was centered around the giant yard I never wanted so one had to get up early to take advantage of the relative cool from dawn to noon. My alternate plan of working in the evening suffered from the great abundance of mosquitos. My days do still start early through I'm not supposed to count what I do in the mornings as work but that's what it is. I'm writing this as therapy for myself, as a friendly warning to my friends who are parents of young children and as what I'd call psychological first aid for those who suffered similar abuse in their childhoods.
There is an impulse to take down everything I've written and apologize. I try to be careful and refer to what I suffered as psychological abuse or mental abuse because I know I'm trained to think of horrific neglect and constant physical assaults as real child abuse. I was physically bullied by my father but never tortured the way some kids were. As a victim, it is far too easy to let your abuser set the definitions of right and wrong or abuse and proper behavior. They don't give out merit badges for surviving abuse. There is no pension for those who meet the criteria of an abuse survivor. In fact, the illogical but very real incentive structure promotes silence.
* * *
A few days have passed as an actual disaster replaced the feeling of impending disaster that had been stalking me. There were no injuries but Melissa got into a car accident and got the worst of it. That was clear as mud. Melissa is uninjured but Melissa's car got the worst of it. It turns out that I can handle my own feelings of dread better than Melissa's fear of impending doom. When she fell apart, I stopped trying to be tough and sent up the Bat signal so to speak.
One of the biggest genuine heroes of my life showed up with the metaphorical Red Cross blanket. I can't write about the phone conversation that took place but it was a big part of what I needed at the time. The metaphorical Red Cross blanket came in the form of some very appreciated pledges and assurances that my back was covered. I was exhausted and losing my ability to communicate at the time but several distinct promises were made. Even if I dreamed all but one, the one would be vital.
Of course, there was nothing to be done for the pain. It has been raining non-stop and the combination of exhaustion, pain and a couple of drinks including some stiffness did nothing for me. I'm too tired, too agitated and too overwhelmed to sleep. As usual, I have to try and smile about my had habit of expecting to just brush off my shoulders and recover from trauma. It doesn't work that way no matter what your emotionally invulnerable friends think. I have at least one nightmare that I remember from the four or five short sleeping sessions that I have each day.
These aren't nightmares about being naked in front of a crowd of people or forgetting my lines. They are depictions of real events in my life. I did have the combination terror of death/feeling that death would be better than disappointing my parents issue for months at a time. I did fail to realize that vital help was available to me because I did believe myself unworthy of help. I did want to end my own life to spare others the shame of having known me.Do I have to point out how unpleasant it is to relive those feelings or can I just move on?
I could get in my recliner right now but I know that a case of the shakes is waiting. I might sleep for a minute and wake up needing a few minutes to decide that my nightmare did not truly happen again. There was no encounter with my parents where they made me ashamed of the challenges I face every day. Why is it shameful to them that I manage to survive challenges that they never faced? Why was it shameful for me to finish slowly? I had a lot more to deal with than the people with whom I was compared. It's true that school was a long time ago for me now.
Shall we move forward to newer nightmare fodder?
When I was sick enough to fear for my life, I was accused of intending to never work again.
I live like an animal. Are they referring to my tendency to warm myself with cats? Nope.
There's more but I would like to sleep sometime soon.
Today is Christmas Day. When Melissa is done working, we'll open our gifts for each other and enjoy ourselves. If my New York family sent me something, I will be very impressed with their generosity in hard times. If they didn't, I have more than enough to enjoy from previous years. Most importantly, no one will accuse me of living like an animal. I heard that some people take that for granted.
For everyone else who is sick, caring for a loved one or both, I hope you get the chance to have some joy. It's a good idea every day but this day more than most. I'll be happy if I could live my life recovered from trauma someday.
Friday, December 12, 2014
She Gets It
Melissa shared a Facebook photo within the last couple of days about chronic pain which touched me right where I live and breathe. The whole digital media process has moved so far beyond me that it's not even funny. Honestly, I couldn't tell you what goes into making one of those modern bumper stickers that go around these days. I understand long form writing whether its investigative journalism, serious fiction, pop fiction or anything else. I think in blocks of 100 pages that my body will not permit me to translate into text because it hurts to stay in any one posture for too long.
That said, I understand that others have a skill for brevity that I lack. I call it a skill and not a talent because I believe you're born with talent that you can turn into skill through mindblowingly hard work. When I'm brief, I feel that my thoughts came out incomplete; in truncated form so that I find myself looking for the ubiquitous {more} button. Melissa and I have our individual tastes in what we choose to pass on. For her, it's usually animal rescue related and the picture of the cat tells most of the story. For me, it's political most of the time. If my political allies want a message passed on, I give it a quick read to make sure my allies haven't changed their minds and it isn't a joke before passing it on.
On the inside, I'm grumbling because too many people are going to think the slogan is the whole story. I'll pass your message along because I support you and know you stand for more than you can fit on a bumper sticker. At the same time, I resent the medium. I got into blogging and online journalling before that because of my limitations not because I'm in love with the format. Eventually, both formats won me over the same way weekly television can win me over. Each entry, post or episode is a small bite but the artists involved go on for a bigger meal.
Well, Melissa found one of those bumper stickers about chronic pain that actually meant something in and of itself. I forget the exact wording but that's no surprise. Brain damage anyone? Putting something to memory has always been a physically painful process for me unless it happened through a lot of repetition over time. Apparently, the memes of child abuse happened like that because they hurt and something said or done to me always flashes up to impair me at a given moment. (You never had any problem remembering songs on the radio but you can't remember math.) A lot of science went into pop music to make it easy to remember. It wasn't until high school when I had a math teacher who kept at it until she could find a way to teach me. Now, I still remember my Algebra and I'm pretty good at it.
Anyway, I'm writing this in a stream of consciousness format in an attempt to postpone the worst of the pain. Melissa shared this sticker about chronic pain that describe it reasonably well in a few sentences. I felt this bright shining moment of intimacy over something posted where the world's entire population could read it. After that, she bought me a couple bottles of incredibly good beer. I was going to say (for a domestic label) but Sam Adams hardly qualifies as a mass market label. They take something that is almost as good as the very best beer made in tiny batches the same way for the last several hundred years and have managed to gain mass market penetration with this very good product. Well, these three bottles (two remain unopened at the moment of writing this) are a step above that.
So, Melissa knows how I feel on a daily basis and she understands my taste in beer which I hope will continue to develop for another 20 years or more. She gets me like no one else does. She gets the odd synthesis of my very eclectic musical tastes and the brand loyalty that keeps me listening to the same rock station that never plays any of the other stuff I love. She understands that I love her no matter how little energy my daily struggles leave for me to show her how much I do love her.
So, let's get back to what this bumper sticker showed that she understands. Chronic pain is a phrase that is far too short for what it can represent. Have you ever come back from a day of skiing - I'm talking to my 40+ crowd now - with absolutely no stretching or preparation ahead of time? Maybe you took a couple of real bone rattling falls where you forgot to go limp so you got all the impact. When you got home, that's exactly when your body decided to give in to a bad case of the flu. There you are with strained muscles that ache like mad with the flu, you get hot and cold flashes going from one extreme to the other, your kids spend the day demanding your attention and then someone calls you with an emergency that absolutely must be taken care of first thing only you were traveling when you were supposed to get the message. Can you imagine a day like that?
Substitute cats for the kids and make them extremely understanding except when hungry and you have what I would have to call a typical day. I hurt like that every day and the world has refused to be respectful and stop turning to let me catch up. I've lost a huge amount of potential in what should have been the most productive and rewarding times of my life.
Would you like to guess what my most common emotion is? It isn't guilt or sorrow. I feel a sense of joy so deep and pervasive that I forget to mention it in the crisis of the day. For as long as I remember, my number one desire in life was that partner who understood me intimately. Melissa is that ideal partner. Because of her, I have someone to help me bear all the troubles in life. She is there to remind me that I am not a terrible person and a burden on my family. My family of choice - my New York family - takes pleasure in my pleasure. I always knew it was right for me to take pleasure in the success and/or happiness of others but Melissa showed me that it applies to me as well.
In my past, I had to guard my joy. If I showed too much joy, it was taken from me. Camping trips, a necessity in advancing in the Boy Scouts, were held hostage to my grades. I was not permitted to quit the Scouts in response though the advancement that they pushed so hard was impossible without camping since I had to demonstrate the outdoor skills that had to be learned and mastered while camping. Eventually, I entered high school which gave my parents an excuse to make better decisions since time was running out for the old Eagle Scout check on the list. I got my camping trips back and they saved face.
Melissa bought me that beer and I'm going to drink some tonight. I'm waiting because I want to have the greatly reduced pain and easy lauughter when she can share it with me. I look forward to hearing about her evening. There may be drama afoot but it doesn't affect her directly. I'm happy that she loves her job and that her bosses value her contributions. I get joy when she talks about people I don't know. They matter to her so they matter to me.
Thanks to Melissa, I know pride as well. I hope I stop short of hubris but it is good to feel something other than shame. I am so familiar with my shortcomings that we try to avoid them. Instead, I get to be proud of stuff that matters to me. I'm allowed to take pride in my writing, my choice of spouse and, most importantly for someone like me in chronic pain, I am allowed to take pride in my endurance. I keep telling friends who are enduring their own troubles to put one foot in front of the other and take a step. When they're ready, that first step will lead to another. Why not take a little pride in accepting my own advice well?
Melissa gets this stuff or, when she doesn't, she wants to get it. Why? It's because she loves me...and we're back to the joy.
That said, I understand that others have a skill for brevity that I lack. I call it a skill and not a talent because I believe you're born with talent that you can turn into skill through mindblowingly hard work. When I'm brief, I feel that my thoughts came out incomplete; in truncated form so that I find myself looking for the ubiquitous {more} button. Melissa and I have our individual tastes in what we choose to pass on. For her, it's usually animal rescue related and the picture of the cat tells most of the story. For me, it's political most of the time. If my political allies want a message passed on, I give it a quick read to make sure my allies haven't changed their minds and it isn't a joke before passing it on.
On the inside, I'm grumbling because too many people are going to think the slogan is the whole story. I'll pass your message along because I support you and know you stand for more than you can fit on a bumper sticker. At the same time, I resent the medium. I got into blogging and online journalling before that because of my limitations not because I'm in love with the format. Eventually, both formats won me over the same way weekly television can win me over. Each entry, post or episode is a small bite but the artists involved go on for a bigger meal.
Well, Melissa found one of those bumper stickers about chronic pain that actually meant something in and of itself. I forget the exact wording but that's no surprise. Brain damage anyone? Putting something to memory has always been a physically painful process for me unless it happened through a lot of repetition over time. Apparently, the memes of child abuse happened like that because they hurt and something said or done to me always flashes up to impair me at a given moment. (You never had any problem remembering songs on the radio but you can't remember math.) A lot of science went into pop music to make it easy to remember. It wasn't until high school when I had a math teacher who kept at it until she could find a way to teach me. Now, I still remember my Algebra and I'm pretty good at it.
Anyway, I'm writing this in a stream of consciousness format in an attempt to postpone the worst of the pain. Melissa shared this sticker about chronic pain that describe it reasonably well in a few sentences. I felt this bright shining moment of intimacy over something posted where the world's entire population could read it. After that, she bought me a couple bottles of incredibly good beer. I was going to say (for a domestic label) but Sam Adams hardly qualifies as a mass market label. They take something that is almost as good as the very best beer made in tiny batches the same way for the last several hundred years and have managed to gain mass market penetration with this very good product. Well, these three bottles (two remain unopened at the moment of writing this) are a step above that.
So, Melissa knows how I feel on a daily basis and she understands my taste in beer which I hope will continue to develop for another 20 years or more. She gets me like no one else does. She gets the odd synthesis of my very eclectic musical tastes and the brand loyalty that keeps me listening to the same rock station that never plays any of the other stuff I love. She understands that I love her no matter how little energy my daily struggles leave for me to show her how much I do love her.
So, let's get back to what this bumper sticker showed that she understands. Chronic pain is a phrase that is far too short for what it can represent. Have you ever come back from a day of skiing - I'm talking to my 40+ crowd now - with absolutely no stretching or preparation ahead of time? Maybe you took a couple of real bone rattling falls where you forgot to go limp so you got all the impact. When you got home, that's exactly when your body decided to give in to a bad case of the flu. There you are with strained muscles that ache like mad with the flu, you get hot and cold flashes going from one extreme to the other, your kids spend the day demanding your attention and then someone calls you with an emergency that absolutely must be taken care of first thing only you were traveling when you were supposed to get the message. Can you imagine a day like that?
Substitute cats for the kids and make them extremely understanding except when hungry and you have what I would have to call a typical day. I hurt like that every day and the world has refused to be respectful and stop turning to let me catch up. I've lost a huge amount of potential in what should have been the most productive and rewarding times of my life.
Would you like to guess what my most common emotion is? It isn't guilt or sorrow. I feel a sense of joy so deep and pervasive that I forget to mention it in the crisis of the day. For as long as I remember, my number one desire in life was that partner who understood me intimately. Melissa is that ideal partner. Because of her, I have someone to help me bear all the troubles in life. She is there to remind me that I am not a terrible person and a burden on my family. My family of choice - my New York family - takes pleasure in my pleasure. I always knew it was right for me to take pleasure in the success and/or happiness of others but Melissa showed me that it applies to me as well.
In my past, I had to guard my joy. If I showed too much joy, it was taken from me. Camping trips, a necessity in advancing in the Boy Scouts, were held hostage to my grades. I was not permitted to quit the Scouts in response though the advancement that they pushed so hard was impossible without camping since I had to demonstrate the outdoor skills that had to be learned and mastered while camping. Eventually, I entered high school which gave my parents an excuse to make better decisions since time was running out for the old Eagle Scout check on the list. I got my camping trips back and they saved face.
Melissa bought me that beer and I'm going to drink some tonight. I'm waiting because I want to have the greatly reduced pain and easy lauughter when she can share it with me. I look forward to hearing about her evening. There may be drama afoot but it doesn't affect her directly. I'm happy that she loves her job and that her bosses value her contributions. I get joy when she talks about people I don't know. They matter to her so they matter to me.
Thanks to Melissa, I know pride as well. I hope I stop short of hubris but it is good to feel something other than shame. I am so familiar with my shortcomings that we try to avoid them. Instead, I get to be proud of stuff that matters to me. I'm allowed to take pride in my writing, my choice of spouse and, most importantly for someone like me in chronic pain, I am allowed to take pride in my endurance. I keep telling friends who are enduring their own troubles to put one foot in front of the other and take a step. When they're ready, that first step will lead to another. Why not take a little pride in accepting my own advice well?
Melissa gets this stuff or, when she doesn't, she wants to get it. Why? It's because she loves me...and we're back to the joy.
Friday, December 5, 2014
Compassion or Cowardice?
I'm on the verge of a big panic attack right now. Whether it was because of my handicap, my status as a nerd or my disability, I have always been vulnerable and in need of protection. I have needed physical and emotional protection through my whole life and I've felt its lack more often than not. Authority figures anywhere along the gamut from parent through teacher to police officer have always been sacred to me. As I've learned just how thoroughly my trust was violated for decades, I've tried to hang on to my trust in other people and other things. For the most part, I've dropped my standards in order to have something to believe in.
Thank God for Melissa, my New York family and a few people like my former shrink who never forced me to drop my standards to be able to trust them. Of course, these are people whom I met as an adult after my ideals had that initial scuffing but they are precious to me. You need have something to use as an anchor when your world starts trying to throw you off and stomp all over you.
The police as a whole have been something I believed in and this was reinforced with the casual social ties I've had with a few police. I had some great conversations with a few while I worked as a convenience store clerk. We talked about how we would all be better off if we just started off with a conversation about what the ground rules were. There were concepts like "keeping things under control" that we discussed at length. I had turned 21 before the first of these chats so no one was breaking any new ground for me in our chats about things like student drinking. The discussion was centered on the idea that cops didn't and couldn't truly police student drinking. Instead, they policed obnoxious behavior related to student drinking. I felt a fair amount of resentment when I was ticketed under what I believed were unfair circumstances but the police seemed to be doing so much to protect my life and liberty that I never bothered getting worked up about it.
Now, there has been this half year or longer when police have seemingly run amok and killed my fellow human beings for almost no apparent reason even including motivations I might call evil. I don't know whether these far away police forces are filled with those who care too little for human life or whether the more palatable "bad apples" explanation holds true. I just know that my fellow human beings are being killed as if their lives don't matter.
I refer to these victims only as fellow human beings because I do not subscribe to the theories of "race." What people call race seems to be an arbitrary set of minor distinctions within the vastness of human diversity. Don't get me wrong. If you want me to label you black or African-American, I will do so. I will also endeavor to remember the labels of religion. It is in my own mind and it is my own opinion that you are a fellow human being first and foremost.
There is no sense of these far away police killing people who are somehow other. I look at what happened to Eric Garner with particular horror because we saw so much of his ordeal and because he is a fellow "obese-American." With all of my brain and neck surgeries, I can imagine my life would be over in seconds if someone applied any sort of neck hold on me. I've never had any delusions about surviving a bullet wound to the torso because I spent many delightful hours on a target shooting range where I learned everything I could about firearms. With the instructor's very sane emphasis on safety, I managed to go all those years without ever seeing a real casualty from a firearm yet there were some simulations that you just don't forget.
My desire to be well informed is setting off my PTSD symptoms over and over. I was seen as something less than human when I broke rules so I have had an absurd fear of authority. I was going to say respect but I know that it goes far beyond that. Watching those brave protestors scares the living daylights out of me. All it takes is one close up of an officer in riot gear and my "run away!" response is triggered except that I have nowhere to run and no reason either. I keep finding myself on the verge of tears over these brave fellow humans who risk their skins night after night.
After those first couple of August nights in Ferguson, I see those police officers as dangerous men and women who seemed to lack a collective sense of self control. They are not people to me in the same way the police officers I have met in person have been. The system has not attacked me personally but I know how vulnerable I am and I've seen how capricious the use of force has appeared. Once upon a time, I had the most intriguiging conversation with a police officer about the characteristics of his service automatic. This conversation took place as far apart as seemed reasonable at the time because I wanted him to be certain that my interest was purely academic. Now, I don't think I could bring myself to look at an officer's sidearm. Please don't shoot me, sir. Please.
So much of my life has been turned upside down with the realization that my parents were poisonous to me. I grew up with capricious anger that could lash out emotionally at any moment so my faith in the social contract is marred. I don't remember feeling loved and protected by my parents. My faith in achieving progress through sensible partisan politics is damaged possibly beyond repair. Since punishment used come down on me for no reason, it isn't that hard to believe that some cop might decide to shoot me because I'm that annoying.
Am I feeling compassion for Michael Brown's untimely death or is the sick feeling more about how unwanted I felt at 18? Am I horrified at death flying out of a police car and taking a 12 year old boy in Cleveland or is it about my memories of that potential violence I faced every day at 12? Am I more horrified that Eric Garner was choked to death by aggro police or at the fact that I choke on my own saliva violently almost every day? I have an idea of the panic that Mr. Garner must have felt. Are these connections all about me being an outrageous coward or is it something else? Isn't seeing yourself in someone else and identifying with their pain the basis of compassion?
I don't know. I just want the dying and the oppression of the vulnerable to stop. It's enough to give me twitches one could mistake for a grand mal seizure but I can't look away. It's my civic duty to observe and the protests have done an amazing job. There is no calm direction to look and try to be something other.
God, please protect my fellow human beings in general and these protestors specifically.
Thank God for Melissa, my New York family and a few people like my former shrink who never forced me to drop my standards to be able to trust them. Of course, these are people whom I met as an adult after my ideals had that initial scuffing but they are precious to me. You need have something to use as an anchor when your world starts trying to throw you off and stomp all over you.
The police as a whole have been something I believed in and this was reinforced with the casual social ties I've had with a few police. I had some great conversations with a few while I worked as a convenience store clerk. We talked about how we would all be better off if we just started off with a conversation about what the ground rules were. There were concepts like "keeping things under control" that we discussed at length. I had turned 21 before the first of these chats so no one was breaking any new ground for me in our chats about things like student drinking. The discussion was centered on the idea that cops didn't and couldn't truly police student drinking. Instead, they policed obnoxious behavior related to student drinking. I felt a fair amount of resentment when I was ticketed under what I believed were unfair circumstances but the police seemed to be doing so much to protect my life and liberty that I never bothered getting worked up about it.
Now, there has been this half year or longer when police have seemingly run amok and killed my fellow human beings for almost no apparent reason even including motivations I might call evil. I don't know whether these far away police forces are filled with those who care too little for human life or whether the more palatable "bad apples" explanation holds true. I just know that my fellow human beings are being killed as if their lives don't matter.
I refer to these victims only as fellow human beings because I do not subscribe to the theories of "race." What people call race seems to be an arbitrary set of minor distinctions within the vastness of human diversity. Don't get me wrong. If you want me to label you black or African-American, I will do so. I will also endeavor to remember the labels of religion. It is in my own mind and it is my own opinion that you are a fellow human being first and foremost.
There is no sense of these far away police killing people who are somehow other. I look at what happened to Eric Garner with particular horror because we saw so much of his ordeal and because he is a fellow "obese-American." With all of my brain and neck surgeries, I can imagine my life would be over in seconds if someone applied any sort of neck hold on me. I've never had any delusions about surviving a bullet wound to the torso because I spent many delightful hours on a target shooting range where I learned everything I could about firearms. With the instructor's very sane emphasis on safety, I managed to go all those years without ever seeing a real casualty from a firearm yet there were some simulations that you just don't forget.
My desire to be well informed is setting off my PTSD symptoms over and over. I was seen as something less than human when I broke rules so I have had an absurd fear of authority. I was going to say respect but I know that it goes far beyond that. Watching those brave protestors scares the living daylights out of me. All it takes is one close up of an officer in riot gear and my "run away!" response is triggered except that I have nowhere to run and no reason either. I keep finding myself on the verge of tears over these brave fellow humans who risk their skins night after night.
After those first couple of August nights in Ferguson, I see those police officers as dangerous men and women who seemed to lack a collective sense of self control. They are not people to me in the same way the police officers I have met in person have been. The system has not attacked me personally but I know how vulnerable I am and I've seen how capricious the use of force has appeared. Once upon a time, I had the most intriguiging conversation with a police officer about the characteristics of his service automatic. This conversation took place as far apart as seemed reasonable at the time because I wanted him to be certain that my interest was purely academic. Now, I don't think I could bring myself to look at an officer's sidearm. Please don't shoot me, sir. Please.
So much of my life has been turned upside down with the realization that my parents were poisonous to me. I grew up with capricious anger that could lash out emotionally at any moment so my faith in the social contract is marred. I don't remember feeling loved and protected by my parents. My faith in achieving progress through sensible partisan politics is damaged possibly beyond repair. Since punishment used come down on me for no reason, it isn't that hard to believe that some cop might decide to shoot me because I'm that annoying.
Am I feeling compassion for Michael Brown's untimely death or is the sick feeling more about how unwanted I felt at 18? Am I horrified at death flying out of a police car and taking a 12 year old boy in Cleveland or is it about my memories of that potential violence I faced every day at 12? Am I more horrified that Eric Garner was choked to death by aggro police or at the fact that I choke on my own saliva violently almost every day? I have an idea of the panic that Mr. Garner must have felt. Are these connections all about me being an outrageous coward or is it something else? Isn't seeing yourself in someone else and identifying with their pain the basis of compassion?
I don't know. I just want the dying and the oppression of the vulnerable to stop. It's enough to give me twitches one could mistake for a grand mal seizure but I can't look away. It's my civic duty to observe and the protests have done an amazing job. There is no calm direction to look and try to be something other.
God, please protect my fellow human beings in general and these protestors specifically.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Timed Panic
If you were to ask me about my younger days when passing as someone who was relatively normal seemed crucial, you might want to know what the most difficult thing happened to be. My greatest difficulty was taking the work product of an entire day, getting the proper books or papers in my bag and getting to the bus before it would leave. Before that, I had a terror of something my family called "eye therapy." I remember it well enough to note that the actual eye doctor and staff were almost always kind. Unfortunately, I was forced (possibly encouraged gently but induced nonetheless) to play a game called "Perfection." Writing the word gives me a quick thrill of dread.
The game was designed to promote better eye-hand coordination by having the player place little plastic pieces into the proper shaped holes. Each piece could only fit into its own hole and then only when turned to the appropriate angle. My terror of this game is such that I find myself wondering just how many peaces there were. I guessed 100 based on nothing at all but decided there could not have been 100 pieces. Then again, 100 pieces is simply ten rows of ten. I can imagine that fitting into the available space. I'm certain that 100 is simply the product of my ongoing terror with this game that some children (like Melissa) played for pleasure.
In any case, my terror of "Perfection" led to the first time I can remember resisting any kind of therapy. I played an obnoxious game of watching my father write a check for the session in the car and then tearing that check to some degree or another. I don't remember if I ever reached the point of tearing it completely in half or maybe I started with that and had nowhere to go from there. I do remember it relieving a certain degree of frustration to know that I was inflicting my own tiny bit of distress on everyone else involved. Denying that I knew anything about it was part of the game for me. I didn't enjoy it but this was the first example I can remember of me taking a stand against something that bothered me terribly.
Of course, that horrible game wasn't the full extent of the issue for me. Red/greens are based on a very simple princple. I would be forced to wear glasses resembling movie theater 3D glasses with one side covered in red cellophane and the other in green cellophane. The TV would be covered the same way except on opposite sides. If my left eye was covered with red, the left side of the TV was covered in green. This was supposed to train me to see with binocular vision because trying to see something covered in red through the green side of the glasses made that side turn black. If I only used one eye at a time, one side of the screen would be black constantly. I hated red/greens but they were among the most petty of cruelties.
It was far worse when my father would enter the room, see me focusing through one eye (so that the other drifted) and stick his hand up to block the vision of the eye that was focused. The result of this was a room that tilted sharply and went out of focus for a split second. As I got older, this made me so dizzy that it was all I could do to remain standing. A very small part of me wished he tried it one more time after I escaped his control. As far as I'm concerned, this was an assault upon my person and I used to want to see just how badly I could hurt him with surprise on my side. He wised up and I'm willing to admit that this is far more likely related to the fact that I fall down just fine on my own these days and could be injured by his "help" than by any realization that I had so much rage.
What did all this eye therapy teach me? It taught me to cheat very effectively where my eyes were concerned. My left eye is my diistance eye while my right eye is best used for reading. I learned this from an eye specialist whom I had been taught to fear. "He'll prescribe glasses for sure since you won't learn how to use both eyes." The doctor thought my father's ideas on eyesight were pretty funny. The doctor told me that he could get me some improvement in my right eye which might lead to binocular vision. It was more likely to undo the adaptations I'd come up with and lead to future right eye strain. We reached this conclusion together based on all the facts.
I was able to live without any trouble from my eyes. How did I drive? I turned my head sideways a little and measured lateral distance instead of pure depth. Since I figured this out on my own, I learned that professional baseball players apply this principle despite having some of the very best eyesight in the world. The line drive hit directly at the center fielder is considered to be the most difficult play he has. In order to make it a little easier, he takes the ball off to the side a little when he can.
Unfortunately, we have to get back to that miserable game called "Perfection." Every aspect of school life was timed and I fell a little more behind as the day went on unless I took shortcuts. You know what they say about shortcuts. You only end up getting lost and losing more time. Instead of putting papers away the way I wanted to, I just stuffed them in my bag, desk or locker depending on grade level. I am certain that I could have benefited greatly from step by step instructions on how to improve. I can only imagine what they might be now. I just know that I did not get the help that I needed. I also know that I did not ask for this help. Other people did not need it and I bought into the whole mainstreaming issue wholesale.
The game was designed to promote better eye-hand coordination by having the player place little plastic pieces into the proper shaped holes. Each piece could only fit into its own hole and then only when turned to the appropriate angle. My terror of this game is such that I find myself wondering just how many peaces there were. I guessed 100 based on nothing at all but decided there could not have been 100 pieces. Then again, 100 pieces is simply ten rows of ten. I can imagine that fitting into the available space. I'm certain that 100 is simply the product of my ongoing terror with this game that some children (like Melissa) played for pleasure.
In any case, my terror of "Perfection" led to the first time I can remember resisting any kind of therapy. I played an obnoxious game of watching my father write a check for the session in the car and then tearing that check to some degree or another. I don't remember if I ever reached the point of tearing it completely in half or maybe I started with that and had nowhere to go from there. I do remember it relieving a certain degree of frustration to know that I was inflicting my own tiny bit of distress on everyone else involved. Denying that I knew anything about it was part of the game for me. I didn't enjoy it but this was the first example I can remember of me taking a stand against something that bothered me terribly.
Of course, that horrible game wasn't the full extent of the issue for me. Red/greens are based on a very simple princple. I would be forced to wear glasses resembling movie theater 3D glasses with one side covered in red cellophane and the other in green cellophane. The TV would be covered the same way except on opposite sides. If my left eye was covered with red, the left side of the TV was covered in green. This was supposed to train me to see with binocular vision because trying to see something covered in red through the green side of the glasses made that side turn black. If I only used one eye at a time, one side of the screen would be black constantly. I hated red/greens but they were among the most petty of cruelties.
It was far worse when my father would enter the room, see me focusing through one eye (so that the other drifted) and stick his hand up to block the vision of the eye that was focused. The result of this was a room that tilted sharply and went out of focus for a split second. As I got older, this made me so dizzy that it was all I could do to remain standing. A very small part of me wished he tried it one more time after I escaped his control. As far as I'm concerned, this was an assault upon my person and I used to want to see just how badly I could hurt him with surprise on my side. He wised up and I'm willing to admit that this is far more likely related to the fact that I fall down just fine on my own these days and could be injured by his "help" than by any realization that I had so much rage.
What did all this eye therapy teach me? It taught me to cheat very effectively where my eyes were concerned. My left eye is my diistance eye while my right eye is best used for reading. I learned this from an eye specialist whom I had been taught to fear. "He'll prescribe glasses for sure since you won't learn how to use both eyes." The doctor thought my father's ideas on eyesight were pretty funny. The doctor told me that he could get me some improvement in my right eye which might lead to binocular vision. It was more likely to undo the adaptations I'd come up with and lead to future right eye strain. We reached this conclusion together based on all the facts.
I was able to live without any trouble from my eyes. How did I drive? I turned my head sideways a little and measured lateral distance instead of pure depth. Since I figured this out on my own, I learned that professional baseball players apply this principle despite having some of the very best eyesight in the world. The line drive hit directly at the center fielder is considered to be the most difficult play he has. In order to make it a little easier, he takes the ball off to the side a little when he can.
Unfortunately, we have to get back to that miserable game called "Perfection." Every aspect of school life was timed and I fell a little more behind as the day went on unless I took shortcuts. You know what they say about shortcuts. You only end up getting lost and losing more time. Instead of putting papers away the way I wanted to, I just stuffed them in my bag, desk or locker depending on grade level. I am certain that I could have benefited greatly from step by step instructions on how to improve. I can only imagine what they might be now. I just know that I did not get the help that I needed. I also know that I did not ask for this help. Other people did not need it and I bought into the whole mainstreaming issue wholesale.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Excelling
I had a chat recently with a surprisingly wise fellow. I say surprisingly because you don't expect great intellect to emerge in games. After all, I can't be the only one to go there for the escapism. This fine gentleman questioned me closely about my life and the choices that I've made. Just when I was about to get snappish, he came to his point. In terms of the life I lead, I do a superb job. I endure it all and nothing more can be asked of me. That's success in my world.
Chronic pain is never truly satisfied with your performance. The reward for enduring cruel weeks of pain is more pain to endure. I hate the idea of enduring more especially since I'm hardwired to doubt myself. After every performance, my immediate thought is that I have to do better. If I don't improve now, something terrible will happen to me.
Guess what! Something terrible happened already. I cope with a lot of help from people who don't need to help. No one is paying them to help and yet they keep helping. When I thank them for going above and beyond, they scoff at the idea of going out of their way. There are a lot of good Christians even among the atheists.Thanks, everyone. You allow me to make the next point. I have to be a half decent fellow for them to want to help me. Help me, here. Give me a good push from wherever you are. I am a good person.
When I keep seeing failure in myself, there's one thing I keep missing. Success and failure are not independent concepts. You succeed or fail by comparing yourself to a set of standards. I spent too many years trying to compare myself to standards designed to make me fail. In the unlikely event of me meeting those standards, they were changed. Every time I scored, someone moved the goal posts."What do I have to do to earn your respect, Dad?" "Get your degree." "I have my degree now." *silence* The goal posts had moved. I do the same thing to myself at times.
What have I done wrong here? The usual answer is either nothing or "I've made an honest mistake." When I see a mistake, I own that mistake instead of trying to assign it to someone else. It's just more efficient that way but I'm learning that this isn't always best. When those who care about me make honest mistakes, they seem to benefit from owning up to them, too. Just because my father did something one way, that's not reason to do it the exact opposite way. The trick is to avoid the blame game entirely. If Melissa wants to fix a problem, I'm more than happy to let her. She fixes most of our problems when you get down to it.
Avoiding the words, "It's all my fault," may be the key. It's not all my fault and no reasonable person would ever believe that I am the cause of all the problems in my little corner of the world. Reducing my use of this phrase may be the next big thing. I am going to see the pain doc today and I won't blame anyone for perceived lateness and delays. I will avoid getting involved in any little spats that don't involve me. For one day, anyway, I know I lack the strength to help so I'm staying out of it all.
Chronic pain is never truly satisfied with your performance. The reward for enduring cruel weeks of pain is more pain to endure. I hate the idea of enduring more especially since I'm hardwired to doubt myself. After every performance, my immediate thought is that I have to do better. If I don't improve now, something terrible will happen to me.
Guess what! Something terrible happened already. I cope with a lot of help from people who don't need to help. No one is paying them to help and yet they keep helping. When I thank them for going above and beyond, they scoff at the idea of going out of their way. There are a lot of good Christians even among the atheists.Thanks, everyone. You allow me to make the next point. I have to be a half decent fellow for them to want to help me. Help me, here. Give me a good push from wherever you are. I am a good person.
When I keep seeing failure in myself, there's one thing I keep missing. Success and failure are not independent concepts. You succeed or fail by comparing yourself to a set of standards. I spent too many years trying to compare myself to standards designed to make me fail. In the unlikely event of me meeting those standards, they were changed. Every time I scored, someone moved the goal posts."What do I have to do to earn your respect, Dad?" "Get your degree." "I have my degree now." *silence* The goal posts had moved. I do the same thing to myself at times.
What have I done wrong here? The usual answer is either nothing or "I've made an honest mistake." When I see a mistake, I own that mistake instead of trying to assign it to someone else. It's just more efficient that way but I'm learning that this isn't always best. When those who care about me make honest mistakes, they seem to benefit from owning up to them, too. Just because my father did something one way, that's not reason to do it the exact opposite way. The trick is to avoid the blame game entirely. If Melissa wants to fix a problem, I'm more than happy to let her. She fixes most of our problems when you get down to it.
Avoiding the words, "It's all my fault," may be the key. It's not all my fault and no reasonable person would ever believe that I am the cause of all the problems in my little corner of the world. Reducing my use of this phrase may be the next big thing. I am going to see the pain doc today and I won't blame anyone for perceived lateness and delays. I will avoid getting involved in any little spats that don't involve me. For one day, anyway, I know I lack the strength to help so I'm staying out of it all.
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