A Great Fucking Day!!!

Fred and Sheba came into the bedroom to tell me to get up. Everything proceeded as it does every morning: the feed, the eat, the chop and burn, the type and post, and the search for the images below. I love the mornings. Each day commences between 5:00 and 5:30, but today, My Day, began at 6:00. How appropriate is that!

It was the first day of the weekend, indulgence was my two-day objective, takin’ it easy. And then, when I rose from the keyboard, my source of so much pleasure, to take my nap, I heard FaceTime ringing on my computer. By the time I got to my desk to answer the call, it had stopped.

But then the landline rang. I was trying to make a sound to the caller and failing, when the man on the other end said, “Chris. It’s Shel. Call me back on FaceTime.” Shel is a former neighbour, a very nice guy, and a retired emergency physician. I’d sent him an email on Friday asking for a chat.

I explained that I was working on a grant from Disability BC to research the access experience of dysfluent people with social service providers. Aidan and I developed a survey last week, that we’ve been sending to stutterers, and he emailed me last week to tell me that our survey results to date are telling him that accessing medical services is clearly a very big problem for my community.

That’s why I wanted to chat with Shel. We had a great time together, both of us, because it had been a long, long time since we last talked together. Shel and Cathy were our neighbours when I lived with Steve. This is the early and mid-eighties. And there was another reason we were having such a good time: were talking about Shel. C’om on, he’s male, he’s tall, and very, very smart; he’s a very dynamic and driven guy. He’s a driven man. Since he retired due to illness, he and Cathy are constantly traveling and having a great, great life together, full of adventure. He’s redirected his drive.

Talking with Shel is like playing a game. I chose tennis because it’s quick, there are plosives, and because we laugh and jest. He serves, and from then on, I must keep up. He’s very respectful. He always compliments my mind. How can I not love the guy?

When we said goodbye, I had the plan I wanted. Plan A is probably not going to happen. That plan is to earn a spot on the agenda of Grand Rounds of greater Vancouver area hospitals. A Grand Round is an educational forum for the doctors, nurses, equipment technicians, etc. of a hospital. There’s a medical nickname for a Grand Round. It’s M&M, because the agenda is driven by morbidity or mortality. In this use of the word, ‘morbidity’ involves complications due to medical treatment. And that means SPACE would have to find someone who suffered a medical loss due to their dysfluency to be featured in a Grand Round.

That’s not as hard as it sounds, hospital patients are deluged, and I mean drowned with questions when they enter into hospital treatment. Paramedics, admission clerks, emergency physicians, nurses, equipment technicians, everyone is asking questions; diagnosis requires communication. 

Shel: “The greatest resource for diagnostics in the emergency department is the patient. Tests are valuable, but without vital information about medical history, onset, duration, intensity, activity, location, etc., etc., diagnosis is slower and prone to error. Information from the patient is vital. Our worst-case scenario is when we are presented with a comatose person.” 

I may be on the hunt for a stutterer suffering from loss due to treatment in a hospital, depending on what Aidan has to say about all this.

Plan B is to get on the agenda of an Emergency Round (ER). (When that came up we both loved talking about The Pitt.) For that, we are good to go; we meet eligibility requirements already. However, Shel gifted me with a significant insight when he said, “Focus on the solution.”

NB: I am very proud to say that this plan is truly a product of both Shel and me. We had a baby. I wanted to be a doctor when I was at UBC, but when I took the requited course, comparative anatomy, I knew that I was too squeamish to continue. I always have enjoyed the pleasure of having medical friends with whom I have learned a great deal because I talk with them about medical things I read about in the scholastic medical papers that I read, and they always open-up because I am so enthusiastically interested in all they have to say. All my learning helped drive my pitch to Shel, the conversational gamer.

I proposed the grand round or emergency round as our campaign targets. From there, we talked for a solid half-hour about pitching to conveners of the Rounds. And as part of our discussion, Shel’s exceptional gift emerged when he advised SPACE to focus on solutions.

•

The Solution

Shel had given me great advice. Forest walking was in order. Sheba would get exercise and I could think about solutions and questions I could ask of my next information source:  Dr. Stacy. I’ve written often of her in these posts. Bryce has Stacy’s heart and soul; I have her mind and her sense of humour. She has a house here, but her primary residence is in Vancouver.

I’ve thrived, all my life, on the friendships of amazing, wonderful women. Stace is my latest find. It was mutual love at first sight; we both had a “one of my people” epiphany when we met.

She is a physician who worked with Vancouver’s prominent rehabilitation hospital, G. F. Strong. She, like Aidan, knows about my bad medical access experience, so she enthusiastically embraced the challenge of finding a solution with me, and we stopped when we had a plan. Stacy and I had a baby.

I am grateful for my medical access misadventures. The give me street cred as I do research for our project called our Listening Equity Project. I’m a credible partner for my brilliant and generous doctor friends; they inform and drive my mission. When I had my breakdown in April 2016 and lost my fluency, I used an iPad and bought software called Proloquo2go. Proloquo2go is an award-winning augmentative and alternative communication app for people who are non-speaking or have difficulty being understood, including those with Autism, Down Syndrome, and Cerebral Palsy. 

Stacy defined the targets: ambulances and emergency rooms. She also told me about the translation process serving doctors, and I think that is valuable information for our pitch to Rounds and that includes signers but precious few dysfluent people can sign. Dear Sirs, what about us? ‘Us’ is a figure somewhere between 1% of the population who stutter, and 18% of people who have trouble “being understood.” This larger figure includes a large percentage of people for whom English is a second language. I have done my research. This is technical writing, folks. I am back!

Our baby named Solution looks like this: An iPad in every ambulance and emergency room, programed with Proloquo2go and customized for medicinal diagnostic purposes.

•

Marilyn Baker would be very proud of me.

The career highlight of my life, my most thrilling project, was designing a two-hundred seat community theatre, professionally outfitted. Plus, finding the money to build it and passing municipal health, structural, electrical inspections before for public occupancy. I proposed a figure for my salary, and I raised all the funds to pay it.

The municipalities involved had me report to Mayor Marilyn Baker of the District of North Vancouver. She was to oversee me. At our first meeting, there was no friendly warm up, she got straight to the point. She told me she expected monthly financial reports in a form satisfactory to her finance department, no bullshit in progress reports, a timeline of measurable objectives for the project, and architectural plans for her engineering department before I started work on the renovation. I was adding the theatre to the communities art centre.

I was 24. I had an English degree and two years of experience being a drama teacher. However, just as I did to find The Solution for dysfluent people, I used my network of acquaintances to find solutions, money, services and labour. As for the architectural drawings, one of my warmest and wonderful memories is of meeting Gerry Brewer, the head of engineering for the District of North Van.

I explained that I had no experience and no money. I also explained why I had the nerve to propose myself for the job, and that was about my social network of people of a wide variety of talents and professional certification. I also explained that I was raising every cent required for all fees, my salary, and all materials, and to hire an architect was going to be extremely expensive.

When I finished talking, Gerry called out to everyone in his open plan staff to listen up. He introduced me most graciously, and he told everyone about my plan and of my certified advisers, and he ended his speech saying, “If this guy can do all that for our municipalities, what can we do? A bottle of aged scotch to the guy who steps up to draw up the plans this young man needs.”

I was standing beside him, and I really struggled to not let people see that I was crying. We opened fourteen months later. I still actively love Gerry Brewer. Without him, I would not have had such a magnificent life experience.

Marilyn quickly became an unforgettable friend. I’m a technical writer. My reporting was spot on. I earned first her confidence and respect, and then a great friendship. When her daughter came out, Marilyn and her daughter invited me to dinner because her daughter felt my friendship told her that her mother was gay friendly. 

At the dinner the daughter did a rant about BC Ferries to her mother. When she finished, Marilyn asked her, “What are you going to do about it.” The daughter responded with a teenager’s favourite word: “Nothing.” And Marilyn delivered, a gentle, kind, and encouraging short monologue on civic responsibility. I was greatly moved and learned a valuable lesson: Complaining does nothing, take positive action. As Shel said, talk solutions.

•

I wrote up the notes on all the points raised, by Shel and Stacy, I explained Proloquo2go, and I sent them to Aidan. In my notes, I included a proposal/request of Aidan. I asked him if SPACE could take on the development of a prototype medically customized Proloquo2go program as a project so that it could be used in our pitch to get on Round agendas. He wants to talk to me about my research and results on Monday.

I got paid for my work yesterday, and I had leftovers from the dinner with Ali and Pete for my dinner last night. What a grand fucking day, and all in glorious 

•

Sharon Dawn: Thanks for that title. I suppose I could have Google searched it, but I asked you. So, thank you. And yes, I know of Mr. Don, and I watch his shows and love seeing all the various gardens. Did you see his recent series that ended with a brief glimpse into his own garden?

Successful Dinner

 There was no rain and it was warm yesterday morning, but it was also overcast. We walked with our friends, and then we came home so that I could carry on with tidying, cleaning and some reading. Having done most of the prep and cooking on Thursday, yesterday was a chill day and that is always good when guests are coming for dinner because I am not tired and I can speak decently.

Yesterday was supposed to be rainy, but when we got home from the walk, the sunshine was blazing and wonderfully warm. I got started on cleaning up the deck. It makes me happy every time I got outside and see how clean the courtyard is, but the deck remains a mess. I got a bit done but then I came in to do the vacuuming and to wash the dining room table before my guests come tonight for dinner.

Just past 14:30, Her Highness and I went for a walk in spectacular sunshine and without a coat! I get positively high from the sunshine and the warmth. On the weekend, I’m getting my recliner out so that I can nap in the sunshine as I love to do, and I’m going to clean the spa so that I can get it filled next week and start using it. I’ve missed it!

Thursday night, I put the tart in one of the guest rooms that get no heat so it’s mighty chilly in there. I was slightly disappointed to see how much syrup was in the platter, but when I fetched it yesterday afternoon, all the syrup had been absorbed by the tart. I was extremely happy because the syrup is delicious, and I was able to put rosemary sprigs and some primrose flowers around the tart. (Do you think that makes me gay?)

Our walk was wonderful. Of course it was! We were trail walking (without a coat), it was warm and bright, I had dinner to look forward to with lovely friends, and my relationship with SPACE is strong and secure.

A wonderful first: Getting into the car and it’s hot! Driving with the windows down and without a coat made today very special 

Another wonderful thing: I am registered with E-Comm the agency that runs the 911 service in BC. I can text 911. Having done this, I feel safer, because in a stressful situation I could not speak on the phone. I never use a telephone. I’m hopeless on it.

Dinner was successful. We all liked the laksa, the flatbread with curry dip, salad and baclava tart. The tart was a big hit! All the uneaten tart went home with Ali and Pete. I was wearing a t-shirt and we had no fire, yet I was toasty warm. It was a wonderful first day of Spring.

The only downer was my speech. When they arrived, I could not speak at all, but after about ten minutes together, I could say one syllable at a time. Pete and Ali, though, are such good friends and lovely people; they were understanding, patient and kind. By the end of the evening, I was doing much better, but it was still very hard.

This morning, the brood woke me up at 5:30. I was dead to the world because through the night I had killer cramps that keep me from sleeping. I got up and fed them, and then I did all the dishes. When I went to bed, I put the vase full of daffodils by my bed. I loved falling asleep with their powerfully evocative fragrance. Now, the daffs are on my desk to smell as I write this post.

And now, a beautiful sunny weekend. I hope to do some yard work, some reading, and enjoy some great walks. 

•

Sharon Dawn: There’s a Jackson Brodie TV series? What’s it called, where is it streaming? I’m loving the books!!! Thanks for letting me know that there’s a series!

Happy Spring Equinox Day!

 wednesday

The weather continues to amaze me. Put another way, the prognosticators continue to err. As Her Highness and I arrived home, the sun came out and the sky was entirely unthreatening. The light always boosts my spirits.

Puttering around the house, doing little chores here and there, and walking on a beautiful morning with our friends took up the morning hours. I discovered, during our walk, that my anxiety was still high from brain malfunction and the power outage. I had great difficulty speaking with my fellow dog walkers. For the past several years, I’ve been totally fluent with them because I see them three times a week. But not yesterday.

We had lunch at 11:00, as we do when we rise at 5:00, and then… AND THEN … I worked outside until it was time to Zoom with Aidan. I made a great start on cleaning the courtyard. I look forward to more work outside, finishing it up and then cleaning the deck. 

I’d lit a morning fire, but I let it burn out because it was so mild outside the house was too warm. It was an afternoon to be outside. It was thrilling to be in the fresh air with no coat and to be free of the horrid anxiety that plagued me from Sunday until yesterday when the power failure and inability to reach Dr. Shoja pushed anxiety about my role with SPACE out of my mind.

My Zoom call with Aidan was, as always, wonderful. My anxieties were all due to my broken brain. After our talk, I was back to a state of bliss about working with SPACE. Plus, it was 15° outside and brilliant and sunny, so Her Highness and I went for a wonderful and uplifting long walk.

Monday night was not the usual. Yesterday’s post was about Monday night.

thursday

I was up late on Wednesday night, later than I’ve been up for a long, long time. I didn’t go to bed until midnight. I was writing yesterday’s post, stoned on the impact of the movie On Waves and War. But I didn’t sleep in yesterday morning; I was awake at 4:40 and up and about at 5:00.

We’d had some rain overnight. Not a lot, but some, and we needed it. The ground is not super saturated as it usually is. The forest trees are going to have a very tough time this Summer unless we get a lot of rain this Spring (which began at 7:45 this morning). We could be in for a long drought this Summer.

After my four-hour morning puttering, we went out for our morning walk and then into the village for supplies. Pete and Ali are coming to dinner tonight and so yesterday’s first task was making a baclava-type tart with filo pastry, apples, spices and, of course, honey. I had SPACE work to do, but it would begin on the weekend. I had to focus on the dinner.

I was excited when we got home. I hadn’t baked for ages, especially anything sweet. I was keen about trying a new recipe that I improvised after seeing a photograph of a savory tart made with filo pastry. I felt excitement about everything: the warm weather, the lack of rain, my pets, my house, my garden and myself. The gloom is gone.

First, I made a mushroom topping for toasted baguette slices. Half a pound of shrooms of three different varieties including Lion’s Mane, sautéed in lots of butter with diced shallots and lots of garlic, then I added some dry white wine, and let it simmer. Once cooled, I added pine nuts that I toasted and mixed in a bit of sour cream. Salt, sugar, and voila, the most delicious canapé to serve before dinner.

Then, I made a dessert. I buttered a sheet of filo pastry, then added another layer of it on top and buttered it as well, then I scattered shattered pecans dusted with cinnamon over the sheets and pinched them into a narrow strip that I coiled into a tart pan. When I’d filled the pan, I poured the remaining nut mixture on top of the tart and baked it. When it was cool, I poured syrup that I made of sugar, water, cloves, honey and cinnamon all over it and put it in the fridge.

It looks great! If it tastes as good as it looks, I’ll be a winner tonight. Once done, I chilled for a while on the couch before taking Her Highness out for our afternoon walk. It didn’t rain all day, and it was 15° again, and today we’ll likely get some sunshine, and the weekend is predicted to be wonderful weather. I’ll get lots of yard work done.

The atmospheric river finally arrived, just not here. The Internet is full of stories and photos of flooding and pouring rain in Vancouver, but we’ve not had a drop of it all day. God bless the mountains of the big island and rain shadows! 

When we got back from our walk, I made the curry dipping sauce for the naan I’m serving. I bought the naan. I was too busy to make flat bread; it’s a three-day process.

Last night a change: No movie, no television. I just puttered around the house and doomscrolled a little before retiring early.

Today, I make laksa for tonight’s dinner with Ali and Pete, we walk with our friends in the morning, and I clean and tidy a little. Rain is predicted, but it never comes; tomorrow the sun comes for a few days, and I get to do some yard work. Woo hoo! And Spring arrived early this morning. Double woo hoo!!!

John and Bunny's coffee machine.

John is a big fan of triangles, and he is a master of fine woodworking.
This piece features his photos of Bunny's flowers, picked from the garden
and brought inside for admiration.

This is a miniature garden on an old stump. As I pass
it on our walks, I always clean it up.

This is growing in one of my woodsheds.

Sometimes the understory amazes me. This is natural and it's stunning.
It's not always brush under the trees.

The baclava tart that I made yesterday for tonight.

I Saw God Last Night

It’s March 18, 2026. It’s 21:15, and I just sat down to write.

I was born to a Québécoise actor. She said that she kept me for six months. I found her at age 40 and discovered, amongst many wonderful stories from her very dramatic life, that she was a fabulist. I think of her as a liar.  I didn’t seek to reach that conclusion it was forced on me.

 I was adopted from a Catholic orphanage at two-and-a-half. I’ve seen the papers; I know that to be true. I was adopted by Don and Connie. At age eleven, I started high school. I went into grade seven at Inglewood Junior High School where they streamed students. My two best friends went into the General Program. I went into the accelerated program and never hung out with them again. My school sent me to the university for math.

Puberty hit hard, Connie had a stroke that killed her personality. She went into the hospital for quite a spell and Don stayed with her. No one told me anything. I had no idea where they were for two days. 

In grade nine, in my English class with my favourite teacher, Mr. Lock, I suddenly went white blind. All I could see was sparkly white light. I started to be able to see things after ten minutes. I could see bits of things between the sparkles. When the lights stopped, I had a headache that made me want to die. I went home and went to bed. I wanted to be away from lights, and I put pillows over my head to kill sound. I lay there wanting to die. Soon, I felt a need to vomit, but I hate being sick so I fought the feeling, but when I did finally throw up, the headache instantly stopped.

I started having migraines early every Friday afternoon. It lasted for years. The headache would be for twenty-four hours, and I couldn’t sleep because of the pain. Lying in bed, however, was the only place to be. Saturday afternoon was when I would throw up, and then I’d sleep deeply until Monday morning. I was somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

On many nights, while I was awake, I would see my bedroom walls moving away. I’d watch them recede, knowing that it was impossible. It made me feel dreadful, so I would go into our bathroom, turn on the light, and lie down in the bathtub because I thought its shiny white walls would push more light into my eyes. Light was my antidote to seeing moving walls. And I laughed at kryptonite. 

I told no one. Are you kidding? Would you? I was fourteen. Connie had a fall and would never walk again. She moved permanently into care and Don began an affair with her nurse. I rarely saw him after Connie left. And the horrors carried on. I realized that I was gay. Nope. I realized that I was a faggot. The term ‘gay’ was to come into use much later. I was a passionate Catholic who turned into an illegal alien and a sinner. Guilty, body and soul. I quit the church and lost my faith.

Let’s go back to me spending two days alone when Connie had her stroke. There were two more significant events that were hints of insight that I failed to register. When I graduated from, high school, I’d been accepted, on scholarship, to the University of British Columbia. My high school had a ceremony in the gym. Don said he’d come. 

I told him where to meet me after the ceremony, and that we’d be able to enjoy the free refreshments. He never showed up. I have no idea if he explained himself. If he did, my memory of it is gone and it didn’t heal the pain of his decision not to give me two hours. Just two hours of his time.

Four years later I was graduating from UBC. I didn’t register to attend the ceremony, and then Don asked me if I was going to attend it. I told him I wasn’t, and he asked me to register. He said he’d come and that he’d arrange with the hospital to get Connie there in an ambulance. So, I registered.

The ceremony was very formal; there were fifteen hundred students graduating. At the end of the ceremony, the president and academic colour party lead the exit parade and we, the graduates, fell into line behind them, slowly sleeking out of the gymnasium through large double doors on the side of the building like a large anaconda.

The doors opened onto a large grass field. As the snake moved to exit the building, all the families and friends of the grads left their seats in the bleachers, and hurried through exit doors to get to the field to reunite with their grad and hug them: brother, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, etcetera. Our line, like Moses, parted the sea of loved ones, and as the grads saw their friends and family, they broke ranks with the snake to join them.

You know where this is going, right? I walked till I was alone at the end of the crowd. I’m seventy-eight. This happened when I was twenty-one, and I’m still talking about it. He/they were not there. I walked to the little RCMP hut on campus, sat on their porch and smoked a joint. I think I wanted to be arrested to hurt Connie and Don, but no one bothered me and eventually, I went back to the gym, deposited my gown and mortar board, and went home. Again, I have no recollection of an apology.

At age thirty-five, I had a house, a partner (Steve), no more headaches, a dog (Spike) and a cat (Miss Kitty). One routine Steve and I had and that I loved were our bathroom conversations. I would get into a bath in nice hot water, I’d smoke a joint and Steve would sit on the toilet—seat closed—with a glass of wine and we’d talk.

Remember the moving walls? Well, I had another late-in-life hallucination. This one, though, happened only once. On this night I’m remembering, I got into the bath while Steve got his wine, and it seemed like a slide show of images that changed quite quickly began in my brain. I didn’t question the oddity of seeing a slide show, instead I tried to figure out these images were that I was seeing.

And then it dawned on me: I was seeing images of my memories of my life with Don and Connie. There was a bazillion of them. The stopped when Steve started speaking to me. By then I’d seen hundreds of images. I didn’t answer him when he spoke to me. My back was bent, and my head was down. I felt crushed and black with sadness because I realized that in all those photographs, in every one of them, Connie and Don were absent.

This has been backstory to the story that made me sit down to write at 21:15. The real story gets started in 2016.

 •

At 17:10 March 18, 2026. I did something I’d wanted to do for a long time. I asked AI what the difference was between PTSD and CPTSD. The two share many characteristics and symptoms, CPTSD had three additional characteristics. PTSD is attributable to a short-term or single traumatic event. CPTSD is attributed to chronic long-term trauma and most often because of childhood abuse. This turned out to be profoundly coincidental. 

What I read told me Dr. S. was a clever diagnostician. I had all the symptoms that Google was listing for CPTSD. There was no doubt whatsoever.

 •

At 17:30, March 18, 2026. I slouched onto the chaise as I do every evening to eat my dinner and watch a movie.

On April 9^th, 2016, I woke up out of control of my body. I was thrashing around in my bed, and I couldn’t make myself stop. I was panting, and disoriented. Eventually whatever was happening slowed down and then stopped. I slowly got out of bed and then I went about my usual morning routine. Then it started happening again. When the second attack was over and I’d rested in a chair for a couple of minutes, I went to phone Dwight to ask him for help. When he answered, I couldn’t speak. All I could do was make a grunting sound.

I lived a short block from St. Paul’s Hospital, so I headed over to their emergency ward. It was impossibly scary and hard. I had another attack on the street and people looked at me like I was toxic.

St. Paul’s referred me to Vancouver General Hospital’s Pacific Speech Clinic. Dr. Morrison, the clinic lead, told me after all the tests, he concluded that there was nothing physically wrong with me and that the problem was “upstairs.” We were in a tower of VGH. I asked him, “What floor.” Me, who took math at UBC at age eleven, said that. I knew things were going to be different going foreward.

I’ve been seeing Dr. S., the referral psychiatrist, ever since. My ten-year anniversary of the onset of my condition is on April 16th. After eight months of semi-monthly appointments, Dr. S. proffered two diagnoses: Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, CPTSD, and Functional Neurological Disorder, FND. That makes me a certified nervous wreck. Think of me when you use the expression.

For years I struggled to heal. I was having up to twenty seizures a day, and I couldn’t speak. But soon I was able to say some words one syllable at a time. I would walk in lanes, and I’d wear ear plugs and two pairs of dark glasses when I went outside. I was over sensitive to everything, but particularly to sound and light.

I had to get out of the city. I moved to live on rural Gabriola Island. I bought myself a heartwarming log home on half an acre of land and got a dog and two cats. It’s dead quiet here. I don’t go out except for groceries, medical appointments, and periodic dinners with friends. It’s my prison paradise. I got speech assistance hardware and software, and island life soon had me having only a few seizures a month.

Those early years of living with a life-changing condition, I was focused on learning how to communicate and to cope with seizures. I couldn’t use the phone, and when I’d have a seizure in public, I’d be harassed by security guards that thought I was on drugs or was hauled off in an ambulance because someone called 911. I began experiencing killer cramps in the night that ruined my sleep, but when Dr. S. prescribed gabapentin, they stopped. 

What I have is a psychoneurological condition. I am averse to stimuli. Too much, and I have a seizure. This paradise, my private park, is my sanctuary. I try to never leave here except for essential errands and to walk the forest trails with Sheba, my Poodle/Bernese Mountain Dog cross. We love to do that, often several times a day. I rarely see people, and it’s comfortable and brief when I do.

After years of adjustment and learning from Dr. S., and from my lived experience, I learned how to manage myself. I felt successfully adapted. My friends here make the odd telephone call for me, otherwise, I get by. Almost everyone is very accepting and warm on this little island.

Dr. S. has never asked about my past. She doesn’t want me to talk about the past unless I want to. At the beginning of our almost ten-year anniversary, she told me that my symptoms were usually produced by trauma, and she asked me if I had experienced trauma in my life. I told her a bit of my story and about always being alone. That was it. We have focused on the present.

I told her one day that my experience with her is nothing like what I see in the movies when characters visit a psychiatrist. In the movies, the doctor is always explaining why the patient does or feels things, but I learn from myself. Dr. S. is a trusted and safe listener, and she’s a great guide and teacher, but it’s me healing me. 

One day, I told Dr. S. that I wondered whether my “breakdown” (she’s never ever used that word) was caused by the actual non-events of my childhood or the remembrance of those events decades later. I had to explain the bathtub slideshow, and when I did, she opened her response by saying, “Often, with neglected children ….” I didn’t hear the rest of what she said.

She went on to say that neglect does worse psychological damage to a child than physical or sexual abuse. I’ve always been a writer. For me, words matter. There’s always a right word; sometimes there is a magnificent word. Being a word freak gave the word, ‘neglect,’ great power to hurt me. It was another blow like the onset of my condition itself. I kept saying to people, “I do not want to be that guy!”

It was exceptionally difficult to hear that word. I told her she was re-writing my life story. It took months for me to integrate what she said and accept the label to which I was so strongly averse. My adaptation has been greatly helped by stuttering organizations. I saw a film on YouTube called Stutterer, and it made me wonder if my bad speech was a stutter, so I contacted the Canadian, British and American nationIn these organizations, I found emotional support and community in them.

One of the organizations is STAMMA. With them, I co-lead a support group for neurogenic stutterers like me. My co-lead is a speech therapist. Neurogenic stuttering is late-onset stuttering, often due to trauma, disease, or injury. Three years ago, a STAMMA staff member asked me to be part of a panel on PTSD and CPTSD and stuttering. It was a grand round for medical staff of three UK hospitals via Zoom. The panelists were two military men with PTSD and me. I felt very fey in insecure in the company of two such butch men.

Our presentation was ninety minutes. When it was over, the organizers wanted to interview the three of us about the experience. Those two fellows were the nicest, warmest, most wonderful guys. They were very welcoming and warm to me. I was thrilled by our experience, and more so when I heard them express such sincere respect for the things I’d said in the presentation. This too, turned out to be profoundly coincidental when I sat down to write at last night at 21:15.

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At 17:30 last night, I watched a movie on Netflix called In Waves and War. It’s a documentary about several American veterans with severe PTSD and who took psylocibin therapy in Mexico that vastly improved their lives. The therapy  was as powerfully life changing for them as was war, but war was destructive and this therapy was constructive.

What got to me first, was the story of two of the men as they describes their hallucinatory experience. One described falling through an endless tower of spinning images that he could see as he tumbled down the vortex through them. The other man described a tower of drawers into which he could  go to see its contents. In both cases, they described seeing their young life in the images, and that’s exactly my experience.

One man uses the expression, ‘PowerPoint,’ to describe what he saw. He comes closest to my experience, but for all these men, it wasn’t an examination of their war experience that healed them, it was seeing, accepting and processing their experience with children trauma that was so therapeutic. Again, this was my experience.

I was overwhelmed. These men and I are kindred spirits, just as the military men with whom I did the STAMMA workshop were. I have absolutely no doubt about Dr. S’s diagnoses. From what I read about symptoms when I Googled about the difference between PTSD and CPTSD, and from all I heard in the film last night, I have no doubt about anything and everything Dr. S. has said.

There was something very powerful and therapeutic for me in the film. It was other wordly to see how these men were changed into a man like me—gentle, loving and vulnerable—by their therapy. What they went through on a drug, I went through with Dr. S. The images, the realization of childhood trauma, the anger, the hurt, the sensitivity to stimuli, the desire to be solitary. They are me these men. I have never felt so masculine as I did last night. I have always felt weak and boy-like, never manly. But not last night. I was one with these human fighting machines.

I understand myself so much better. Watching the film was like having one of my best sessions with Dr. S. I’m a stronger man today. I am a man. Dr. S. is my psylocibin.

I can’t believe the coincidences that intensified my experience last night. Googling about PTSD and CPTSD yesterday afternoon and reading about symptoms, and my previous experience with military men, both these things made last night more profound and accessible. Both experiences made last night more profound. More than anything, discovering we all had childhood trauma and realized it through viewing images from our subconscious was extremely powerful.

I am a better man today thanks to that film.