Thursday morning, Paula and I were sitting by the fire and chatting. I’d periodically put in a chip of copper sulphate and all the flames in the fire would turn a deep, gorgeous blue, or a luscious luminescent green, or both. I’d made her a nice breakfast consisting of an omlet, and some fried slices of the ham from Christmas.
We were enjoying taking turns saying how much fun we’d had together, and then I thought I was going to sneeze, but instead I had a hurricane seizure. Hurricane seizures—my nomenclature—get their name from the island of calm that happens mid-way through the seizure.
I had a fairly strong seizure. It came on very suddenly and then as quickly as I came into it, I came out after a few minutes. I lifted my right hand to my mouth, two fingers extended and holding an imaginary cigarette, I inhaled. Then I exhaled and said, “Well that was pretty boring, wasn’t it?” And then I went right back into the seizure for the second half. I hadn’t had a seizure in many weeks
Reflecting on why, I realized that almost every time I have guests, I have a seizure, not matter how much I love my guests. Dr. Shoja is not surprised. For me, you all, everyone, is a dangerous animal. Even people I love and trust, can take me by surprise—like fucking Chris and Frani, dearest of friends for 52 years, who came here three years ago, and on the last night of their visit, Frani tore into me. She was vicious. Our friendship was over.
It surprises me that I had a seizure with Paula. I asked her to come, and we are like siblings who like each other. She was brutally betrayed by her family when her mother died, a family who left the care of their mother entirely to Paula. Betrayal is something I understand, so I like keeping close with Paula because I know what happened. I witnessed it and was steadfast support to her all through it. And yet, I have not just a seizure, but a Hurricane.
Otherwise, Thursday was a great day of eating leftovers, walking in quite warm weather, taking Paula to the ferry, reading and later watching a movie. Early in the evening, I was ready for bed.
•
Friday was, as always here at Pinecone Park, a good day. We walked with our friends in the morning and shared our many stories of our holiday meals and visitors. When I got home, I’d received a message from my neighbour, Phillip, saying he had the burn barrel that I wanted, so I arranged to go and pick it up at 2:00. But first, I fed the brood and did some light reading, and then, once back with the barrel, I spent a couple of hours outdoors burning detritus from the bomb cyclone earlier in the month. I have a mountain of twigs, cones and branches to burn.
I am burning in the barrel on the gravel driveway/parking lot. It’s easy work when you bring the fire to the pile of waste instead of toting the material to where I normally burn in the backyard. I built a sand lot for the incinerator I have there, but it’s small. I’ll move the burn barrel to the sand lot once I’m done in the front yard. It felt wonderful to be outdoors and doing something for a change.
It was very wet, the material I was burning. Wednesday night was a night of heavy rain all through the night, but I did manage to get a good start on the huge pile of crap. David came over to visit, and then so did Ursula, and then we all (including Sheba) went over to their place for tea and cake. It was my first visit to the yurt since it they’d officially moved in, and oh it was nice. It's cozy and comfy. I love their little home. I am blessed to have such wonderful neighbours.
I have missed them. I saw Dave almost every day from May until October, and then then came the day that I move indoors permanently for the cold, dark and wet season. In Winter, it takes an invitation to get together.
After our visit together, I came back home to monitor the burn barrel and ensure it was out, and then I came in for dinner and films. Another night with my beloved brood.
•
I was pondering who I’ve become since the onset of C-PTSD/FND last night, but my mind kept wandering more to who I’m not. I was defining myself by my deficiencies, and one of them is that I can’t concentrate for long. I could happily read all day before my breakdown, now I read ten-to-twenty pages and then I must do something physical for quite a while before I can go back to my book.
My pondering is the homework that I do between sessions with Dr. Shoja. And last night as I was thinking, suddenly an event in my past came to mind, and as with most such recollections, they have new meaning with all that I know now about myself since my psychiatric diagnoses.
It was in Tanzania. I’d hired a driver for 15 days of driving around looking at animals, nature sites, plants, but mostly the animals. Each morning when I was having breakfast in the amazing and fabulous tented camps, my driver would come in to make plans for the day with me.
On one such day, we set out to find our target animals, but we encountered an enormous group of wandering baboons. They filled the landscape, they were of every age and they were roaming, clearing a wide path on the savannah of everything edible. My driver suggested that we turn around to bypass them, but I chose not to. I wanted to creep along slowly with them and watch their behavior.
I was amazed by a great many things that I saw. I felt privileged to watch them and move at their speed; they were indifferent to our vehicle. Then, suddenly I heard a dreadful scream/howl, then a second quieter, longer, lingering scream. And every baboon stopped and turned to look at a nearby grove of bushes.
A mother, walking on her hind legs, emerged from the bushes carrying what seemed to be a dead baby, it’s umbilical cord still attached to them both. She was carrying the baby high above her head with one hand. And all the baboons gathered around her, those closest to her, reaching out to lay their hands on her.
I was a weeping wreck. When I saw how touch was functioning in that community and in the face of one member’s crisis, I realized that I should not feel guilty about feeling angry that my parents never touched me. Their indifference and distance always hurt, and I felt I was seeing why in those baboons. I realized it wasn’t just touch; touch is merely a physical act. What I missed was one of the driving emotional forces of touch: compassion.
Dr. Shoja uses the word neglect. It hit me like a shock wave when I first heard that word. It’s my N word. I think neglect refers to a variety of inactions, but it was the lack of compassion the mattered most to me.
I remember being told that “holding” your pee when you need to go is one cause of kidney stones. I had a bad one that gave me six of the worst weeks of my life. As I lay there with nothing to do as I healed, I wondered what not getting compassion when you need it did, and I decided it was what turned a heat to stone. I was wrong. It gets you C-PTSD.
