Friday morning and it’s sunny! Waking up to a sunny morning it like awaking to find all your symptoms have disappeared.
This morning, I’m going to meet someone with whom I went to high school. Wendy is a very creative person, that’s all I know about her; we weren’t close friends in school. Getting together was her idea.
Fucking Lady Gaga. Not the singer, the person with PTSD. She announced to the world that she has is but I see her doing this and that and jetting here and there — a “this” can be jumping off the roof of a stadium (Superbowl) and “that” can be singing live in front of tens of thousands with sound blasting in your ears. Her revelation makes me dislike using the term “PTSD” to explain my symptoms and deficiencies. And the whole amygdala explanation is unsatisfying for me so I can’t expect it to be meaningful for my friends.
It leaves me with this: “I’ve got a mental health problem.” I add, “I’m sad to say” to make myself feel better. And then I hope there’s no question; Canadians are too polite to ask more, thank God. And that’s what I’m going to do with Wendy this morning.
This is being Chris.2: Having to explain myself.
Recently I had to meet with two people. They are not strangers; we’ve met several times before. They both seem like nice gentle positive people who have seen me before and know about my condition. But when they decided to ask me about my symptoms — and, by the way, I admire their forthrightness — one of them opened with: “Are you on the spectrum?”
As soon as my condition becomes the subject of the conversation, my symptoms worsen. I can’t help it, so they were seeing a fairly dramatic display at times because I felt like a laboratory specimen. The other person said, “I thought you might have cerebral palsy.”
It’s my arms. I don’t just stutter, my arms dance under stress. It’s so odd. They sometimes move on their own, too, when I’m going to sleep or watching TV.
I’m one odd dude.
|Look closely: Fern bits!|