Sunday, December 23, 2012


[It's a tricky time to update.  Family invade shortly, and I'm still producing lung butter at a rate which probably disqualifies me for small business status.]

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Winter arrived.  The Mayan calendar ended.  I remain, changing.

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There was some real progress the last two days, however, and for a moment, last night, subluxing limbs  while inhaling steam in the spa (in a nice rain, too), I do believe I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

The specifics are for my journal, not here.  They just wouldn't make sense without pages of prose I lack the ability to write at the moment. 

For example, I found a release in my jaw that may well lead to being able to sleep on my back.  Make sense?  A quick attempt, a starter, really - the jaw release freed a connection which had my skull tilted back in relation to the top of my spine.  My back of my head was able to lift, my neck elongating, the spine seeming to move slightly back and straightening (instead of arcing like a "c," it became an "l").

The other BIG change was a feeling in my right shoulder that I cannot explain at all.  For a brief moment, it was like a ball was atop my arm within the shoulder joint.  I had a "Holy Shit!  Is THAT what it's supposed to feel like?" moment, and spent the next 20 minutes or so trying to recapture the feeling, to no avail.

Anyways, I am exhausted.  My body is sore.  My lungs are shot.  My sinuses are dried and bleeding.  I've had no better than 4 hours of sleep any night the past week and a half.  There really is nothing quite like the experience of a physical metamorphosis while ill in Winter.

Now the relatives are coming to dote on my daughter.

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I'll close with a nice little apocalyptic concept. 

In the past, when I'd have an adjustment that would alter my chest or neck such that my posture opened up previously closed portions of lung or sinus, I'd get sick, similar to now.

Suppose, some 30+ year old virus I had as a kid was trapped in some corner of lung or sinus cavity.  There, it mutated, only to be freed when an insane genius (or the genuinely insane, your choice) managed to figure out how to unwind his body.  I could be ground zero for the super flu, Captain Tripps, himself.

Tangential, at best, though circling back, a picture of endurance?  Apres Moi, Le Deluge.  It's a decent look at moments of my time.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Two Words I Didn't Need To Hear

Walking Pneumonia.

I got it, already.  Winter is just starting and my lungs are now as dysfunctional as my body.

I am SO screwed.

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I'm trying to look on the bright side.  There isn't a bright side.  Maybe if there was a market for lung butter, then, there would be a bright side.

Okay.  I just chuckled.  Well, I did on the inside, before a coughing fit took over.

I could sell The Wisdom Cow brand Lung Butter.  That's almost funny.

A non-sick me would probably download a picture of the Land O Lakes butter package, doctor it so the Atom Heart Mother cow sits in the spot of the kneeling Indian, and then upload the clever picture of the product of my expectorant.

Of course, a non-sick me would mean no product.

So I'm just going to click Publish and go stare at the TV.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

When Will Enough Be Enough

[This is depression writing. This is what happens when I am mentally afraid but aware enough to fight of despair. This is exhaustion. This is not good, not good at all.]

I am losing it.

Slowly and steadily, every day we creep further into Winter.

Okay, technically, it isn't even Winter yet, which only makes things worse as I fret over the coming months of cold.

Last Winter was agony.  I had forgotten, thankfully, how bad it was, similar to how I cannot recall the specifics of each weeks' pains as things continue to evolve into new ways to hurt.  I did remember it sucked, but I lost all specificity, and I certainly did not want to go through my notes to relive it mentally, to see what pains may be on the horizon once again.

I do remember it seemed to last forever, and I remembered how glad I was when it finally warmed up.

I also remember how much I tried to force my rehab exercises, how I would overdo it.  Those first months of warmth, I was so scared that I would not be better, better enough, to not be miserable through another Winter. 

And now, I remember how I genuinely feared the prospect of making it through another Winter.

The fear is back.
So is the cold.  And
My mind entertains death once again.

*     *     *     *     *

I cannot help but fantasize.  I return to the thoughts of the Mayan Calendar, or the Hopi's New Age, that somehow I am going to become something, untangled, come December 21st. 

I couldn't help but be revisited by the Led Zeppelin songs which comforted me through pain so long ago, as the band has plugged their new concert album recently on NBC's Revolution, an interview on Letterman, as well as their Kennedy Center honors.  Will I get the bustle out of my hedgerow?  Am I on the path that no one goes?

Mental masturbation, all.

I want this to be done.  I'm so tired.

*     *     *     *     *

Of course, I have thought this before.  I endured pain before.  I got through Winters before, and I will again.

Only, this time I have an added fear, a completely irrational one.  That it is irrational only makes me fear it all the more.

After the 21st, when [crosses fingers and says, "if"] I am not a new man, when there is just another in this seemingly endless set of changes and pains, what do I fantasize about then?

Logic only gets you through so much.  Chronic pain deteriorates the mind.  Believe me.  I've been there.  What happens when one of my favorite daydreams is taken away?  What happens the next time I feel desperate?

Sure, part of me is excited by the extent of my recent changes, which have been objectively significant, with my lower back and hips changing dramatically while the shoulders continue to shift, my neck and head changing their normal positions (with both ears suffering great pain in the process).  It could well be a mere two weeks until I get the final knot untied.

How much of a mindfuck would that be, right?  I'd want to believe I was part of some great Synchronicity of change, but I guarantee my logical side would take over (especially if the pain were finally gone), and I'd have somehow created a decade long self-fulfilling prophecy or sorts.

But when ["If, dammit, IF!"] it doesn't happen?  What then?

*     *     *     *     *

This is depression writing. This is what happens when I am mentally afraid but aware enough to fight of despair. This is exhaustion. This is not good, not good at all.