I Am Angry

The spectacular day promised by the canopy of twinkling stars that greeted me upon waking yesterday morning, disappeared quickly. Less than an hour after rising, the sky was overcast, giving me a feeling of impending rain. But my big fat novel insured that I had a day to look forward to, regardless of the weather, and I had lots of food in the fridge.

It didn’t rain, so I had my lovely long spa in the afternoon, right after coming home from a quick trip into the village and some ball playing with Her Highness in the park. But it was a dull, dull day outside and the rain came in the evening.

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I’m definitely going back to Dr. Shoja. And not for a single visit. I’m going to ask her for a few visits. I have a theory as to why my speech has worsened.

During my three years of therapy that began 7 years ago, and for years after that, I was occupied with adapting to life with my symptoms—plus, of course, moving to Gabriola and building a life here. 

Not long ago, I started feeling very stressed. Every time I seized, and whenever I spoke, I have felt victimized by my past. It’s more intense than it has ever been before.

I think hearing my past become the basis for 3 diagnoses (PTSD, FND Reactive Attachment Disorder), and getting all the state aid (devices, tax benefits and therapy) has been a shock that has ramped up my emotional distress. The diagnoses has made my feelings about my childhood real and they have forced me to face the impact of my isolation when I grew up. I feel overwhelmed by all this insight.

And I think that is why my speech has tanked. I thought it was bad before, now I’m millimeters from total muteness. I am feeling intensely, the pain of my past. It happened so long ago, but I’m only processing the grief now. What a mess.

In a psych class at UBC, I remember reading about Harry Harlow. He’s famous for his maternal-separation, dependency needs, and social isolation experiments on rhesus monkeys. I remember the photographs of monkeys clutching boards covered in toweling and sucking on a feeding tube extending from glass containers—this contraption being their mother substitute.

It’s been frightening to realize that I am one of those monkeys.

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This morning, I called David. He’s my gay ‘nephew.’ He’s the nephew of a former close friend whom I met when he was 19, and he came out to me. I was the first person he told that he was gay, and ever since, we’ve been extremely close. I love him dearly.

It was just brutally difficult to get going, but after about 10 minutes on FaceTime together, I was able to speak decently. By ‘decently,’ I mean with my Elmer Fudd voice. 

My beloved friend, Todd, has a brother with Down’s Syndrome. I talk a lot like he does. It’s a horrid sound to my ears, but at least I can communicate with people who are vital to my wellbeing. I now, know that my friends are going to stick with, and that is a huge relief. 

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This morning I walked Sheba in the 707, and when I came upon strangers, I spoke well, in my own voice. It was a wonderful surprise, but then, when I wanted to call Sheba to hurry to get into the car, I was Elmer Fudd again. That reallypisses me off. I can speak to people who mean nothing to me at all, but with my important friends, I am Elmer Fudd. I fucking hate this condition.