Work, work, work. Five loads, rest; five more loads, rest. That was my day—a day without cookies or treats for rewards. Sigh. But lovely, glorious weather. By noon I was in just a t-shirt and shorts. It was wonderfully warm. After ten loads, to give my back a rest, I went into the village to unload a ton of recycling stuff that I had been storing in the shed. It felt good to be rid of it all and to have more space in the shed for more wood.
I had a nasty seizure in the grocery store. I hate having a seizure in public. But as I twitched, jerked and panted, I heard the cashier say: “Take your time. Don’t worry. I have an autistic son who has seizures.” Those were perfect words.
It felt good to stop for a while (and to have some ice cream for diligence rewards). When I got home, I checked on today’s weather and saw that it was going to be nice today, so I relaxed about my work, knowing that I could finish these most recent two cords today.
Once back, it was time to do more stacking, but under overcast skies and light rain showers. I did a few loads and then stopped when the rain got heavier. But it was just a short shower. The sun blasted through the clouds, and I was back at it. The day ended as it began—a true beauty of a day.
All in all, I only did 18 loads, but that was enough to satisfy my, for today is another gorgeous day and I can finish stacking all the remaining wood. I had a spa and a piece of Nanaimo bar as a reward last night, had dinner, watched some television and went to bed feeling great about my day (except for the seizure).
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All my writing exercises that I have been posting begin with me, in the mood, perched at my keyboard. Something immediately engaging. Like: She was sure that when she went to bed, she had two legs. But not quite as lurid.
It’s like stepping onto a moving train when I write the sentence, and the story just comes out of some delicious kind of free-floating in your memories to piece together something that builds, quite quickly, to a solid ending. The train is in the station.
So, last night I thought I’d follow the same format of my writing exercises, but instead of something fictional, I thought that I might write about a current concern: Why do I feel so ashamed of having seizures in public? And why do I apologize all the time for my speech?
People say: “Own it. Own who you are.” “Get over it.” “Move on.” There are plenty of ways people say, ‘accept it.’ I can’t. Am I supposed to feel guilty about that? Guilt goes well with shame.
I learned to love being gay. My mental health improved when I came out. With FND, I’m not finding the path from awareness to acceptance and celebration. Can you imagine having a seizure in public and “owing it?” Like how? Come out of the seizure, and then do some runway strutting and vogueing for the pointers? I don’t think so. I know: “Don’t care about them.” It’s so easy to say, but I don’t know how to do that.
I’m not going to post what I wrote. I didn’t like it at all.
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Lydia was my sister-in-law for the fourteen years I was with Steve. I adore her. She, her mom, Steve and I were a unit. We were always delighted to be together. Martha, their mother, was more of a mother to me than was Connie Tyrell. Well, you can imagine my delight to get an email saying Lydia and her husband, David, are coming to visit this coming Summer. Hurray!!
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I’ve been preparing my notes for Dr. Shoja. Between sessions, I make notes and jot down questions I want to ask her; we always have a full agenda for our sessions. I’ve decided that this will be my last session—at least for a while. I feel really good about life and my condition, so I’ll take the Summer off, and I’ll stay independent until I feel I need her help again. If I do.
I’m doing as well right now, as well as I ever have since the onset of FND. My speech is very good; all signs of the decline that set in last December are gone.
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