I had to go to the drug store tonight. The one by the old house. The foul, moldy place, with the too difficult to mow lawn, the place where we were going to have parties, and do things, and be a family.
The place where we were married, in the the aforementioned yard, two years ago in October. I can't, and don't want to remember the date.
Arrogantly I believed I'd be fine riding by, but should have realized by the way I was going too fast in the dark, telling cars to go fuck themselves, that I was not in my right mind, that something was altering my reactions, like I was summoning the scary stuff to...tell it to go fuck itself.
I got near the house and knew I should have gone the long way; I turned across the street with a car bearing down so I wouldn't have to wait where I could just look at it. In the parking lot next door the first tic hit, causing me to contract in half, nearly flipping me over my handlebars. I screamed, just an inarticulate syllable. Then another tic, with a "GODDAMMIT!" This is one of my Tourettic nightmares: being so overwhelmed by an emotion that the condition that rarely asserts itself in any major way suddenly makes me a spectacle, an object of pity.
Fortunately there were no other people out, unless some unseen tenants of the apartment building nearby were on balconies.
Proceeding to the drugstore I saw cops parked across the street. Cops don't know what to do with someone like me, especially the Southern Sheriff Stereotypes that Kittery Cops can be. I clamped down, rode on.
Getting there I locked my bike, and started to buckle. I was flooding with feeling and memories I stupidly believed myself immune to. The sensations said in a the voice of my internal thunder storm: foolish little twitch...it hasn't been enough time; you are not healed; you've merely felt good lately; you've been high on creativity, and blazing dark eyes; your heart is still stitched together. Here's your good news: your stitches finally held; you may not fall totally to pieces.
Sometimes the choice you're given is Tics or Tears. Sometimes that's no choice at all; one will be a release of emotion, but a humiliation as some people can't be allowed to see that vulnerability (anymore), the other an explosion of errant neuro energy, and embarrassing and socially damaging.
I panicked, and texted my friend Heather. Yes, same name as...her. My friend has become very important to me through this scary fucked up time. Her friendship, caring, and wisdom has helped me believe I'm worth something in moments when I wouldn't otherwise. She's been utterly invaluable. I was under Dementor attack, and the memory I used for my Patronus was her (Yes, that's a Harry Potter reference; what of it?). She makes me smile a lot, you see.
I felt weak and stupid, though, for being needy, for putting myself through a needless trial, for asking for help. She of course obliged, and it was only a wobble of a mood; I didn't fall back to misery.
I spent the rest of the evening among friends downtown, watching women, making fun of the trend to look like streetwalkers that had taken over. I had a few moments when I thought I saw my wife and...someone. I ticced a lot for a bit.
Mostly I was alright, though. I hadn't expected to feel as good as I often do these days, or to be able to not fall to bits from such a frightening moment. The Dementor attack failed. I am healing. I have help. I'm weird about that, but am learning to just accept things that make life better.
No comments:
Post a Comment