Tales From the Infusion Clinic, Special Edition: The Sound of Fury, Part 3 of 4

CONTENT NOTE: Essentially, all the warnings and alerts for readers, especially those who feel they are in a precarious emotional and/or mental state. Bookmark this for later. Or never. Whenever is best for you. In this multi-part post I address various forms of domestic violence and reference other forms of violence. I get personal. I do not write about any abuses in graphic detail, but oftentimes the muted, even mundane details can be the most triggering. And I write about some lasting effects, including mental health/illness crises and self-harm. Take care of yourselves and thank you for reading.

Part III. When Barry Met Sally

Somewhere in all this, the titanium-hipped hubster and I binged the latest/third season of Barry on HBO. ⚠️ENTIRELY RELEVANT SPOILERS AHEAD. ⚠️Also, FAIR WARNING TO FAMILY: I’ll be talking about You Know Who. Continuation of Part II. Dis Closure

Barry started as a dark comedy. The title character is a charming if not too bright antihero, a veteran (with PTSD, it seems, maybe) turned assassin for hire hiding in plain sight. He’s in a relationship with Sally, a survivor of domestic violence. In season 3 Sally is helming her own TV show about domestic violence. She seems to enjoy being busy and in charge. She’s often sincere and caring. She’s also dismissive and manipulative with staff/friends, Barry. She’s all over the map emotionally and clearly in denial about her progress regarding her past — and her present relationship with Barry. It’s a brilliant portrayal of a survivor of abuse grappling with success and failure and other people’s perceptions of the realities and marketability of victimhood.

The Emmy goes to …

It’s a short season of half-hour episodes, but they pack a wallop (pun originally not intended and then I decided to let it stand), so abuse survivors beware. That Barry is a violent man and not the safe haven Sally chooses to believe and present to others is revealed to her workmates in a heart-pounding scene of verbal ferocity. In the scene Barry does not hit Sally or anyone else. He does not produce a weapon. He does not throw objects. He arrives at Sally’s work unexpectedly, wanting a favor from Sally. He will not take no for an answer. He will not leave. He does not care that he is interrupting her meeting and stalling the entire production. He gets angrier and angrier, his verbal assault reaching a terrifying apex with Sally against a wall, Barry towering over her, his face spewing invective just centimeters from hers. It’s a wire-walking feat of cinematic accuracy in portraying a type of violence and intimidation that leaves no visible mark, but feels as if it should.

The Emmy goes to …

Hard as it was for me to watch, I deeply appreciate this spot-on portrayal of a violent man perpetrating a type of abuse that so many of us experience and do not know how to name or document. Barry finally storms out and Sally goes to her meeting, newly clothed in denial. The three witnesses bounce around the unseen devastation left in their wake. That was bad, right? We should report it. But … Denial, dismissal, and fear compete with naming the abuse, honoring feelings, taking action. They default to inaction and disperse, traumatized and confused.

(Hopefully welcome spoiler alert: One of the witnesses does eventually confront Sally with the truth.)

Just take all the Emmys already!

Sunflower with large drone bee taking up much of center and smaller, lighter colored bee to left, seemingly looking for a pollen filled spot — This sunflower is not big enough for the two of them!

So many times my father was that screaming assaulter. Although he would go off on service personnel when he felt slighted, his favorite victims were family, especially, in my limited childhood experience, my mother, his mother, me, and my sister (all but me long deceased). (Not to minimize the harm he inflicted on his siblings and others which I did not often witness.)

None of us ever knew when my father’s tirades would erupt or end. Or when he would lash out physically: slamming a door, throwing a paperweight, pressing a fork into flesh just to see the imprint fade away. One good, hard slap. Or sometimes two. An occasional reminder that he could back up those incessant threats whenever he so chose. We knew he was capable of much worse.

But according to him, never. Never ever. He was a very good father. A great father to me under the circumstances, really. He did nothing wrong. All blame lies solely with my mother, the witch who divorced him and took me away. He was blameless.

He was the victim.

Ornate box turtle faces off with garden snail — When it rains here in Burque, our turtles dine on their very favorite: escargot! Photo by Jeff Hartzer @abqonscene

Admittedly, he sounds much more like real-life Johnny Depp than fictional Barry. (Sounded, that is. 7th anniversary of his passing coming up in January/Tevet.)* Unlike my father and Depp, Barry is aware he’s done bad things. Criminal acts. But he’s not all that self-aware or all that smart, which is part of his antihero charm. Barry’s a contemporary, land-lubber Jack Sparrow without the stench of rum and dead pirates.

This spoiler-laden article sums up the momentous shift in this latest season of Barry, “Season 3 rebuffs this audience instinct [to roo t for Barry despite his mounting body count]. Barry descended from a bumbling anti-hero to full-fledged villain by threatening the two people he claims to love.” According to the article, the show also demonstrates how Barry “equat[es] violent acts with love” and is “driven by animalistic fear for his life and what might come next—not true remorse or a desire to actually earn forgiveness.”

Why would someone like Barry or my father or Johnny Depp need to seek forgiveness when in their minds they’ve done nothing wrong? When — from their perspective — just the accusation is yet one more insulting campaign against their entitlements, which have been ridiculously threatened and denied repeatedly, instead of honored with gratitude?

[Digression number (oh, I don’t rightly know at this point) … This may well remind some or all of you of a certain plate- and invective-hurling American political figure, who I choose not to name here and now. And wouldn’t you know it, those who vociferously defend That Guy, are all-in Depp supporters — and were from the very start.]

And hereabouts is where I’ve been stuck. I was going to cite some of Depp’s tirades, which include threats, insults, absolutist demands, with violent gestures, such as slamming cabinet doors,** and consumption of alcohol and/or drugs. But you, my dear readers, don’t need to read his ugliness here. How the jury believed this man was only defending himself, was not really violent; you know, not like that — not abusive! Well, I have ideas I’ll address in Part 4.

Instead I’ll posit that angry, violent people create a pervasive atmosphere of fear and intimidation around themselves. Without effective intervention they do not tend to be pull back on their own and look inside. Those whose language is replete with self-aggrandizement and control are not naturally given to introspection.

Sunflowers with small yellow and dark gray bird hanging upside down, well camouflaged. Blue arrow points to bird and blue letters read “lesser goldfinch” — September brings lesser goldfinches hanging upside down as they feed on our sunflowers. Distinctive song. Hard to photograph. Love them!

I do feel very sad for Depp’s children, who apparently testified that Depp was a terrific father whose years of significant substance abuse and multiple trips to rehab did not adversely affect them. Depp asserted the only person who suffered because of his substance abuse was him and a number of witnesses appeared to corroborate.

While I’m not a big fan of Alcoholics Anonymous for reasons well articulated in this 2015 Atlantic article, that organization along with most if not all others would find Depp’s idea laughable. Whether or not alcoholism/addiction is a progressive disease, it generally fits the model of a serious, ongoing disease, and thus necessarily affects those in the user’s milieu, like ripples expanding outward from a pebble tossed in a still pond. The closer to the center, the greater the impact. Not all substance abusers are angry and/or violent, of course. Some when using are morose or reckless or hypersexual or suicidal or … But one thing they are not is present. Under the influence, they are unavailable as engaged parents, partners, friends, or colleagues — as they might otherwise be when clean and sober. Not that they don’t want to be. Many a person with an addiction wants nothing less than to hurt anyone. (Except maybe themselves.) But it’s just not possible; it’s a big part of what it means to be “impaired.”

2000 miles away from my father, I lived most of my childhood with my mother, Aunt Lore, and Uncle Tom. They were remarkable people with traumatic pasts and admirable resiliency. Among other things, the sisters had both depression and alcoholism in common. Neither ever found or could commit to appropriate, effective treatment for either disease. There were times when I resented each for not trying harder. But I know, too, that medicine and society did them no favors.

Some time in the future I will write about the trio who raised me. Suffice it to say, being adversely affected by a loved one’s substance abuse does not preclude loving that person. Denial of the problem is not a winning strategy — except in the case of this trial, it seems. I guess, I hope Johnny Depp’s kids are getting paid very well for their “good father” testimony instead of … something more controlling.

Coming up … Part IV. Backlash and The Antihero Fantasy

Clusterduck creation with rabbit head and — Yes, this is what I do with my time! @Clusterduck

*Yup, took me this long after his death to get here. Even so, my heart is pounding hard in my chest as I write honestly about him for a public site. Sometimes, I feel dread is physically embedded in my tissues, comparable to how toxins are in the cells of those living near Superfund sites.

**At one point in the trial Depp was shown in a drunken rage slamming kitchen cabinet doors. He bemusedly admitted to “assaulting a couple cabinets” and the audience/jury/courtroom murmgured in delight. But this was not an inconsequential display. Depp was not alone; he was railing at his then-wife Heard. Had the jury considered Amber Heard’s point of view, they might have sensed the intimidation. I’ve slammed a door in anger a couple times and instantly regretted each. Because I saw the fright in others. Which was not my intent. Or was it? Scheiße! Was definitely not my primary goal, but, yeah, there was a little of that desire to intimidate, to reflexively reassert my perceived loss of status. Damn! Gotta bring that up in therapy!

Tales from the Infusion Clinic, Special Edition: The Sound of Fury, Part 2 of 4

Part II. Dis Closure … a MyGoodWolf exclusive

This time it’s personal! As in, truly personal history. Note cautions above. (Was not easy to post this.)* Continuation of Part I. Did you hear what I Heard?

I am a survivor several times over. Meaning I’ve endured multiple traumas and lived to generally not tell the tale, except in therapy. (And even then …) I have hinted at my trauma history here and there in this erratic blog and some people know bits and pieces of my history, but very few know the whole picture. Those who do are my husband and a couple psychotherapists. So yeah, I can keep a secret! Almost as well as those who took certain information to their graves. My PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) has surged to crisis levels more than once these past few/several years, most recently over the roughly 6-month period this last November-April.

This is not a digression.

Here’s a listing for the first time all in one place. You’ve been cautioned. Not all on this list are traumas in and of themselves, but contribute to an overall environment of instability. Some stuff listed below may be the result of trauma. Some … just needed to be on the list.

◦ I’m the child of parents and a guardian with largely untreated mental illnesses. (My mother was also a victim of malpractice in this regard.)

◦ I’m the child of parents with likewise untreated eating disorders.

◦ I’m the child of a parent and a guardian with debilitating and on a few occasions life-threatening alcoholism. (Also untreated/under-treated)

◦ I’m the child of domestic and sexual violence. I was witness to and subject of these abuses, perpetrated both in person and from afar. Our abuser had a diverse portfolio of tactics. Abuse enabled in part through legal and medical systems.

◦ I was the victim of a sexually and emotionally abusive teenage relationship.

◦ I grew up in an economically depressed area with an undertow of racism, ableism, anti-Semitism, and stark classism. Sometimes, I was the target of prejudice. More often I was witness to bigotry directed at people I liked and folks I loved.

◦ I was a victim of sexual harassment before I knew what to call it. Colored my education, from junior high through college, with the worst offenders being teachers and professors. During my dance career, I also experienced harassment from strangers disguised as fans.

◦ I’m a survivor of suicide loss several times over. Most notably, my mother died by suicide. And a couple mentors. A colleague. The list goes on … surpassing numbers of loved ones who died due to AIDS.

◦ I am mentally ill. Clini D,** bad nerves, and shell shock; i.e., Clinical Depression, Generalized Anxiety, and PTSD. I’ve “entertained” suicidal thoughts more than a few times throughout my 59 years. In therapy/treatment for last 40 years and counting.

◦ I’m a recovered bulimarectic. (Yes, autocorrect, that’s the proper term for a person with bulimarexia, so stop already!) I do still suffer from body dysmorphia. In between is my self-harm … thang. Manifested in different ways. (Mostly past tense. Working on it.)

◦ I’ve lied more often than I care to admit. Usually to keep “secrets” related to the above, at the behest of others, stated or implied, and out of a terror I often could not name. I tend to get caught in other kinds of lies. Except, of course, lies to myself.

◦ I’ve worked with and for victims/survivors of sexual and domestic violence in various settings for half my life now. Somewhat diverse group of adults and teenagers, though majority were female and white. I am an advocate/ally/activist for survivors, doing what I can, when I can, now from my altered reality of early retirement due to disability.

◦ I have no children. I have had no children. I have had 3 miscarriages, an oophorectomy, and a complete hysterectomy (entire uterus, cervix and all). One-ovary menopause was awful! I don’t recommend it.

◦ I’ve literally survived a few near-fatal asthma attacks and one burst appendix yearning to be free! Thank you, AMA medicine! I’ve also been a victim of medical gaslighting and malpractice. Dammit, AMA!

◦ 28 years ago, a man, seemingly under the influence of a psychoactive substance, crashed onto our front porch, shattered a glass lamp, and sliced open my husband’s forehead. While I was on the phone with 911, our dog Joplin chased the man away, saving the hubster! Assailant never caught by authorities. Hubs stitched up nicely. Thanks, AMA doc!

Ornate box turtle spotlighted by sunlight and shadows of wheel spokes — Studs Turtle in a contemplative mood

While there’s much more to me than this list, I have been undeniably shaped by trauma since infancy. (Adverse childhood experiences correlate with later development of autoimmune diseases; I intend to write about that.) I’ve also been molded by directives to keep secret “personal issues” like alcoholism and depression and to deny abuse outright. Not only do I view the world through the lens of one who has survived domestic and sexual violence, but also as one who has endured and witnessed other forms of violence that are pervasive and still largely tolerated, although they’ve become progressively less acceptable over these last 6 decades, at least according to public policy.

As with the George Floyd murder, I began paying much closer attention to the Depp/Heard trial after the small group, come-and-go drug-lounge that is how I like to think of the infusion clinic. Full disclosure: I did not go back and watch any significant portions of courtroom testimony. I read and watched as much as I felt I could safely consume. Then one night, my husband and I saw a clip of Heard’s exclusive interview with Savannah Guthrie on the evening news.

“She’s just so … odd.” [Hubster, aka my life partner]

And there it was. First comment from the love of my life, who to that point had seen but a fraction of the trial coverage and commentary I had. Celebrity scandal is even less his thing than mine. And he’s been concentrating his energies on recovering from hip replacement, as he should. (He’s progressing quite nicely!)

Hub’s comment caught me by surprise. Since when have we been fans of normal? Is watching the evening news a sign of our descent into normalcy? Do we need an intervention?

Up to now we’ve been casual fans of Johnny Depp. We like his weird movies, but not the Disney pirate franchise. Despite eschewing tabloids, celebrity gossip shows, et cetera, we’ve heard tales over the years of Depp behaving in ways ranging from inappropriate to clearly abusive. Tales often spun later to portray Depp as a harmless eccentric, framing his hurtful actions as aberrations, made possible only by consumption of impressive amounts of alcohol and/or drugs. No lasting damage!

Because that’s how a male celebrity off the rails and in the throes of chemical addiction is presented. Especially, a proven cash cow like Depp. (Major misnomer there, eh? Shouldn’t that be cash bull?!) Instead of being painted as a drunken, drug-addled freak lashing out, or an alcoholic/addict in need of anger management and intervention, he’s pictured as a lovable eccentric, hailed for both his macho ability to remain standing after consuming inordinate amounts of alcohol/drugs and his manly stamina through multiple rehab stints. Such heroic personal work! Yet, little to nothing about how any of this affects the people in his life. (We’ll come back to this later.)

Celebrities of lesser stature are painted with an entirely different brush. Women and girls on a separate canvas altogether.

Yes, Amber Heard is a little odd. Plus, some say, she is not a perfect victim — whatever that is. Johnny Depp, who looks great at 59, is extremely odd. His talent, good looks, gender, connections, and well-channeled weirdness have made him a wealthy man, adored by millions around the world. He may also be a very accomplished (spousal) abuser. Not perfect, mind you, just really, really good.

Do I believe Amber Heard? I don’t want to sift through the testimony from the UK trial and/or this US one and risk a major PTSD episode so that I may play pretend juror. I have enough on my plate with my memories. I have reservations, mostly, I think, because I (kinda) hate that the Washington Post op-ed at the center of the US trial was written by folks at the ACLU. Even so … yes, I am leaning in her direction.

Do I believe Johnny Depp?

No.

I mean, are you kidding me? No!

Fuck no!

From my perspective, shaped by surviving and witnessing intimate violence, the image of Johnny Depp presented at trial fits that of a domestic violence offender to a nearly comical degree. He was calm and charming. Personable. Confident and relaxed. Unwavering. Absolute! He never hit her! Never assaulted her! He never started anything; he only defended himself. He never hit her; she started everything. He was always the victim. Excellent use of the DARVO tactic: Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim/Offender!

Johnny Depp easily “justified” abusive and violent language about/or directed to Amber Heard by simply dismissing each as irrelevant, out of context, mere fantasy, a joke between friends, etc. So comfortable were so many with him, that when he admitted to assaulting cabinets and joked about excessive alcohol consumption, many in the courtroom laughed, smiled, and/or nodded. Yes, they were entertained!

And the jury was won over. Somehow the jury felt they “abused each other” and that canceled out the harm, just like double technical fouls in basketball. He was more believable, stable throughout, as you’d expect from a victim. (Say what?!) Amber Heard would sob one minute and turn ice cold the next. The deliberating jury of 5 men and 2 women didn’t know what to make of her. She made them really uncomfortable.

Yup, that’s what we victims/survivors do. Our existence makes you all uneasy. And when we break our silence and speak about our violations and our abusers, we make you all very un-fucking-comfortable. Female types, especially. Trans and other gender nonconforming folks take that discomfort to levels off the charts! Thus, the current hateful legislation around the country.

(I will suppress political rant/digression #4 for now.)

Artistic drawing of woman's lower half of face and chest, tinted blue. Bright light with green tint emanates from mouth, erasing all facial features. — *Unspeakable* by DÅL|é

*I’ve experienced an array of internal backlash — ridiculous thoughts, awful rashes, hellacious migraines, etc. —between writing and editing this post. And then again, from editing to posting it. Yes, the extreme heat is a factor. As is this — this thing right here I feel the need to do.

**Thanks, John Moe! John Moe is the creator of the brilliant podcast The Hilarious World of Depression and author of a memoir with the same title. After a pandemic-related hiatus, Moe’s podcast resumed in 2021 on a new platform as Depresh Mode. I recommend all! Even if you don’t have Clini D — you poor bastard!😁

Coming up … Part III. When Barry Met Sally

Tales From the Infusion Clinic, Special Edition: The Sound of Fury, Part 1 of 4

Part I. Did you hear what I Heard?

The infusion clinic is often my touchstone on how those outside my immediate circle feel about current events. I just happened to go in and sit there, soaking up the hard-to-fully-comprehend juices for a couple hours, the day after George Floyd was murdered, when all of us with assorted chronic maladies brought together by varied infusion needs were still in denial. Most, myself included, couldn’t yet watch the whole 90-second clip being shown then and had no idea the fatal assault lasted over 9 minutes. We could barely say Mr. Floyd had been killed, much less murdered. White and Latina women in the clinic that day, including nursing staff, as most days.

Occasionally, there will be a Black or Asian or Indigenous person in the chairs. That’s primarily based on appearance and my assumptions. Mostly women, the occasional man. Again, just assuming. Could be trans. Non-binary. Intersex. Infusion clinic relationships are like those “single-serving” ones referenced in Fight Club. Except for the nursing staff. Although there’s been some turnover there. There are a couple nurses I quite miss. Ah, the comings and goings of medical personnel.

[Digression #1: One major oversight in Breaking Bad casting: no Native American medical personnel or support staff. In Albuquerque, New Mexico?! Really strains credulity.]

June First I went in for infusion, just hours after the decisions and awards were announced in the Johnny Depp defamation suit against ex-wife Amber Heard and her counter-suit. We all confessed to not watching the daily trial proceedings, available for live streaming.

“Not a fan of drunken pirates!”

“Yeah, no, but the first 2 movies were good!”

“Who’s got the time?”

“Who’s got the spoons?!”

“He’s so weird! But … I don’t know …”

“I do like the Scissorhands movie! Winona Ryder was so young!”

“Not a good idea for my mental health.” [That was from me]

Some had caught snippets here and there, but over the six weeks of the trial — 6 weeks, FFS! — even those of us who vowed to stay away could not avoid the barrage of sensationalistic press coverage and social media frenzy surrounding it.

Yes, truth be told, the others actually said “total circus” as in media circus instead of “barrage of … media frenzy.”

[Digression #2: As a lover of circus and a disabled/retired aerialist and teacher of circus arts, I object, as modern circuses are well-organized multi-level entertainments that have an overall astounding safety record, considering their activities. Especially if you look at the ones that don’t involve wild animals, which admittedly is the real stain on the modern circus reputation. That and exploitation of artists, the latter being a problem throughout the performing arts world. The elephant in the tent, as it were.]

[Digression #3: I miss # being primarily known as pound or number sign — or for extra geeky credit, octothorp — instead of nowadays first assuming it’s denoting a hashtag, something of fleeting significance on the World Wide Web. I’ll get over it.]

Back to Johnny v. Amber …

“So, Johnny won, right?”

“Pretty much. He gets 10 mil. And another 5 mil. Except he won’t get the 5 mil. Amber gets 2 mil.”

“They didn’t believe her.”

“Did you?”

“She pooped in his bed!” [Delivered as a stage whisper followed by restrained giggles]

“Um … did she, though?” [Me]

“I thought she said she did it as a prank.”

“I don’t … I don’t know … I think she said she didn’t do it. But …” [Not me, for the record, though such were my thoughts]*

*Confirmation: Amber Heard indeed denied having defecated in said bed.

Coming up … Part II. Dis Closure

Sandhill cranes in a field with speech bubbles denoting bits of conversation. "Move it flocks! Rez for 40 downfield! Damn! Where’s Craig?” “Who’s Craig?” “I’m so hungry I could eat Craig!” “Hold up, Celeste! Charlotte is way behind — again.” “Charlotte! Come over here by me!” “Uh, no thanks, Chad.” — I don’t know if all sandhill cranes have names beginning with C; this is just what I overheard that day! Obviously, Chad is a jerk.

Avoidance and Punishment

Content Note: There are curse words in this post. If you’d like a version of this post without curse words, well, Sweetie Pie, you is shit outta luck. There is also a reference to a gruesome self-harm fantasy, toward the end of this overlong piece. Plus a book recommendation and a photo of a super cute dog.

I feel the need to apologize. And with it the need to justify my absence. I know this makes for a bad apology, but I’ve also been thoroughly immersed in the belief that an unexcused absence is … well, you know, inexcusable. So, if one checks out, drops the ball, retreats, doesn’t meet expectations and thus disappoints others and feels bad about it and wants to make it all right, then that personage, that disappointing lump of humanity, should just say, sorry, I let you down, I will try not to do it again, though I might because you never know based on this variable and that, meaning there’s context, but this is about you not me, so goes the rule of best amend making, excepting of course my regret and my reparations and my learning from how all this came to be, but you don’t need to know all that, unless you’re my boss or my teacher or the jury service and need a note from my doctor or, somewhat ironically, you’re my doctor and need at least 24 hours notice and a good excuse or a note from another doctor or I’m going to really have to pay!

I do apologize for that extra-super-fuck-long of a runaway sentence. I should edit that stream of consciousness crap, but I don’t have the energy and I guess I’m just not that sorry, truth be told.

Truth be told. Ha!

I am a much better liar than I profess to be. I’ve said more than once that I’m not a good liar, but that’s, of course, a lie. I do usually get caught with the straight-out lie. Historically, the consequences of my getting caught have at been spectacular and coincidental. But lying by omission, keeping secrets, deflecting, minimizing, etc. —I’ve long done all that quite well. And, of course, lying to myself is where I really shine. Maybe you knew that already. Ok, sorry I wasted your time.

Is it actually possible to waste someone’s time? Time is … a phenomenon, a dimension, a construct … Time is hard to define. Time is not something owned, stored, traded, manipulated, used inappropriately. It is relative and unstoppable. It can’t be stolen. Or replaced. There are no time byproducts. No barrels of toxic time waste buried next to vats of gravity sludge.

I’m sorry. I know I lost you all with that last paragraph. It’s just that I was raised thoroughly steeped in the religion of WasteNot and I’m having a hell of a time giving myself some goddamn, ever-loving slack! I know what I want to get done and what I need to get done and I’m getting more and more accepting — if that’s the right word and I’m just very recently not entirely sure it is — of what I can do, but I don’t know what to do about them not syncing up. My ducks are not all in rows ready for the spooning. I am sinning. Wasting resources. Time. Money. Smarts. Food. Energy. The Venial and Mortal Sins of WasteNot.

And my penance is …?

I’m a Jew raised by ex-Catholics, so I’m entrenched in guilt. And the need to punish myself. I’m not a masochist. Not literally. Ain’t no sexual pleasure involved. In fact, I’ve had me a couple of coital headaches and unholy sheeeiiit do those suck ass! (And not in a good way. No, not at all.)

If only I could quantify my energy into discreet utensil units, then all would be well and there would be no waste. Right? Sporks feel more my speed than spoons. I need at least the illusion of some stabbing power, some targeted selectivity. And the spork is my talisman for my time inside — my 8 days in the mental hospital with chair yoga, music therapy games, crosswords, and no psychotherapy whatsoever.

In sorry, but I just don’t get Spoon Theory for myself. In practice.

For example, I had some trouble walking yesterday, but my trusty Rollator got me both to and from my long-awaited Pulmonology appointment, which was a lot of questions and ordering of tests, which was what I expected. My one big thing for the day complete, I didst doth rest and so didst then perform solely duties as needs must of a less taxing variety and verily not requiring myself to be fully upright and locked in.

Yet today, I can barely get out of bed. Last time this happened I started looking at folding wheelchairs. Wanting a wheelchair brings up so much! Fear, sadness, money concerns, flooring issues, questions, more questions, fear …

Damn, woman! Stop! Ok, first I’m sorry about the “didst doth” stuff. I had fun, though. Second, Spoon Theory is great for many. I just can’t make it work for me. Total spork-less loser. Also, I’m getting a lot of internal backlash for revealing I spent 8 days in a mental hospital — and maybe even more for revealing I did not receive promised care while there — but also for having not yet written about all that which I both very much do and do not want to do.

And I lied about having trouble walking today. Actually, that was last week, when I started writing this here thing.

This week it’s trigeminal neuralgia with migraine plus neck pain and immobility that’s got me down. Way down.

Trigeminal neuralgia, aka facial pain, aka suicide disease.

In addition to every other shitty malady I have, I have to have this goddamn, motherfucking, cocksucking nerve pain with the triggering up the ass nickname of “suicide disease” too?!

(Those are the only swear words I know. In English, that is. Entschuldigung. ¡Lo siento!)

I think this post may be about fear. Have I written about fear before? I’m afraid of repeating myself. I’m also afraid I repeat myself a lot. And yet, not nearly as much as I need to. I’m afraid of not making sense. Of not knowing that I’m not making sense. That no one will tell me that I’m not making sense.

Or that they will and I won’t understand.

My mother used to laughingly say that I was a very smart person with no common sense. She was herself a very smart person. I used to believe that statement of hers was more loving than insulting. Reasonable and accurate. Nah. Sorry, Mom. You were laughing off my trust in myself, my ability to learn from my mistakes, and replacing it with fear that I lacked the basic tools most people have in common and take for granted.

I forgive you, Mom. You were raised on fear. People fed off your fear most of your 60 years.

If you are right now thinking of that FDR line, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself,” please know that I am harboring homicidal feelings for you.

I’m sorry! That’s another lie. Hyperbole-style. That FDR line makes no sense out of context. Look it up. I dare you! However, it has been quoted ad nauseum for decades with no hint to its original context, so that it’s truly no wonder so many jump to it when good old fear comes up for discussion. Or dismissal.

I’m sorry, but autocorrect filled in “God old fear” and that tickled my figurative funny bone.

At one point during my lumbar puncture (aka spinal tap), indescribable nerve pain shot down my left buttock and the full length of my left leg. I alerted the doc, moving only my mouth, eyelids, and all necessary for continued breathing for fear of making it worse. Doc said “tickled” my sciatic nerve. Nope, sorry, tickled is not the appropriate word here!

Fear is useful. Fear keeps people alive. Fright leads to flight or fright. Or freezing. (Sorry, that’s where the rhyme ends in English.) Make a goddamn decision! Now! Do something!

I don’t know what to do and I’m really sorry about that.

Have I chosen to freeze out of fear when it’s really not an f-word situation at all?

I’ve had this here blog for over a year now. Been thinking about it for I don’t know how long before that. I have plans for promoting it. Right after I finish this other task. And then there’s that other stuff I gots to do. Meanwhile, this thing and that thing came up. Far higher priority! Like, obv!

Sorry, but shouldn’t that be ob-v?

Self-promotion is so very hard for me. It’s always been a challenge. Was a easier when I was running an artistic company I started. Then I could promote the rest of the company and share the spotlight with them. I do enjoy receiving recognition for my work. But just me, on my own in the PR spotlight …

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I cannot continue. My internalized mother does not approve of the syntax of that last unfinished sentence of the last paragraph.

Oh, how I do enjoy punishing myself for my perceived transgressions! Probably why my mother has come up in this post, as she was likewise gifted in this realm. And really, truly, that is where I waste my energies the most, convincing myself of my lack of worth as a human being. Hurting myself in various ways — I am a rather creative person, you know (humble brag) — for somehow not deserving what I would not deny those I like the least. I know this sentiment to be true, as I honestly wanted the best, compassionate treatment for he who some might call my worst enemy.

I’m sorry I’m not more prolific with posts. And that I haven’t finished and posted so many others, temporarily lost in the fog of my gray matter. Or maybe lying in wait in a white matter lesion? Sorry, that metaphor doesn’t really work. Or does it? Not demyelinating lesions, by the way. Ruled out MS years ago. Just migraines. Occasionally, reality-bending migraines. Sanity-questioning migraines. Forgot how to tell time migraines. Fantasies of halfway scalping myself and then pulling individual hairs through the gap knowing that wouldn’t stop the migraine probably but it would be one hell of a distraction and might just get close to equaling the agony if only I had the strength and the will to do it migraines.

Oh, and also maybe lupus. Tricky wolf.

I have no excuse. I have every excuse. I tried to read an article or blog post or column or whatever on what brain fog feels like, written by a fellow chronically ill foggy brain-haver while in that unclear cognitive state, but I couldn’t do it. Yup, I was too foggy!

Last week I thought maybe this post would be about burnout, as defined by the most excellent and decidedly feminist book, Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking the Stress Cycle, and I would disclose some past events in which I have only now realized I have not completed the stress cycle. In part, because of lying to myself. And others. By keeping secrets. Out of fear. Not the useful kind.

Anyway … maybe I’ll start that big PR campaign next month, when the big sale I haven’t written about yet is final.

If you are right now thinking about recommending a handy-dandy webinar or webpage or any such thing that will guide me through “just a few easy steps” and then maybe a follow-up task or three, then please know that I’m feeling a return of those homicidal tendencies, as it seems you have not understood at all what I’ve been writing here.

And, for that, I’m not sorry.

Face of black dog, wearing blue, illuminated glasses, and with big, open-mouthed smile. — The glorious Princess Holly Peño did not know the meaning of the word ***sorry***. Due to her being a dog!