'In Vain I Turned To 'Craig's List'..."

“ In Vain I Turned To Craig’s List To Catch Sight Of, Much Less Catch, Some Wayward Dreams “

05/23/12

To my always dear, and understanding friends, and constant, ever-loyal readers,

While this is like to be no more than selfish , or self-serving exposition, there are times when my ‘global’ pain surprises me, and, when in the usual consideration of all my varied illnesses, something ‘new’ will hurt to point of agony.

Such was the case when—yesterday—I once again fell off and on asleep, to find myself hanging over the arm of the office chair I have there.  Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid, for I had a bed awaiting my return; call it but yet another wretched passing of the night ‘til dawn.

For when I finally awoke—sufficiently—to rouse myself back to bed, the damage had been done, and I had once again sprained my back so that every, other step cut like a knife.  So agonizing it was, that it caught my every other breath, and make me cry…twice.

That sprain—allied, already with a hundred, other pains, made me tremble in its totality, and force. It mangled my already unsure step, and getting dressed was a nightmare in itself.

Today was occasioned by a visit to my Therapist, and the County bus (late, as usual), provided a most bumpy ride, hitting every pothole known to man, while being sped to our separate appointments by a doubtful, sweating, pleasant—though somewhat confused--driver who did not know his route.

Two passengers and I were tossed-about like lifeless rag dolls, first against the rails, then against the seat backs, until the entire right side of my back thrummed with a staccato pulse that kept time with every lurch.

Upon our arrival there, I discovered that—with each, halting step—I now apparently require major assistance just to get down the steps of the bus.  Did I want to use the wheelchair lift?  “Not yet, I think”, though…that will be coming soon, one day.

The visit went as most of them do: a brief recounting of my illnesses, depression, and panic, and a decided anxiety, so Shrink will change me from Klonopin to Ativan, whenever my current script for Klonopin runs out.  We’ll see what esoteric magic can be found in trading off.

I was late in getting home; the scenic tour of pain not having yet been done; and I was truly grateful to arrive home…I call it my “little, slice of Heaven,” and to dog, and to a quiet house.

I made a cup of coffee, and took a pain pill, while waiting for my back to settle down.  My only accomplishment for the day, was that I got up, and nicely dressed for Shrink, and—if it may be deemed some triumph over Agoraphobia—then, I did so, by leaving the house for my appointment.  It remains ironic that I can—with much prodding and reluctance—take a ramshackle, County bus some miles to see my so-called ‘Providers’, yet, many times, I cannot leave the house to get the mail.

Sometimes, my very, dearest friends, especially when the house is silent, or while waiting for coffee, or while lighting yet another cigarette, I pause to try to turn my mind off, allowing it to roam, choosing to ponder—instead—soft, and gentle thoughts, far , far away from the reality that I know only too well.

And should I be depressed enough, the body, and the mind are, for a while, battered by tumultuous regret.  Thoughts arise, unbidden from the depths of past memories, and these are both sad and sweet. These transient thoughts somehow justify the past, leaving only shadows of ‘wants’, desires, or needs, for, really, all are different, like a picture puzzle of five thousand pieces (each one a stray, and sovereign memory trace) that somehow defines a previous life, into a cauldron of other puzzles, other pieces, hoping that—somehow—the whole will be arrived at, even if one can but only secure the puzzles’ outlines.

If you have had a chance to view my profile, and to examine the photographs therein, you will see my attempts to redecorate my home, making it a safe, and comfortable asylum; giving free reign—when it could be afforded—to make a statement that—at last—is IS my home.  Beyond the locked, front door, chaos and monsters roam, and other, assorted horrors I am unwilling to bear, that cause me to be afraid.  Made ten times worse because I live alone

Though, at times, the decoration has slowed to a stop, for want of funds; it is then that ‘little’ details are attend to, admixed with larger, wilder ‘dreams’, three or four of which come to mind; impossible ? Who can say?

For there are so many things that everyone ‘needs’ such as food, shelter, clothing, reliable transportation, and funds—sufficient—to give full answer to these ‘needs’.  And (although there IS a marked difference, there are so many corresponding ‘wants’.  In no hierarchy of importance, these would be represented by safety, comfort, ease, better health, no pain, depression, nor despair.

There are—of course—still ‘things’ I want (but cannot possibly afford), and so these idle, lambent thoughts defy reality; surely, I know that much.   However, day-dreams follow idle thought, as day follows night. And yet, they cannot be gainsaid just because in ‘real’life, they may be unattainable.

How often, have I warmed myself with them, holding them close, wishing, hoping, wanting, as if wishing hard-enough, or—and this is probably shameful, to include their evanescent longings in my furtive, nightly prayers.

For, to dream high and wide; to soar above the baseness of reality, in concentrated conjuring, at least take some consideration of this awful pain away; and so, I would concede that it might have some purpose, after all.

What better place—I thought—to turn for such advertised amusements: a compilation of ‘Wild West’ bartering, desperate sales amid the pure oddity of personal ads; where fortune and often sheer folly intermingles.

I refer, of course, to “Craig’s List”, with all its unique bizarreness, for here, I surely thought I might find my Grails, things I want, but can hardly afford.  Yet…I find that I still want them, even more—perhaps—because of my age, and illnesses add to the search a certain desperate hopefulness; to be able to full-enjoy my ‘wants’ while I can still enjoy them, if that makes any sense.  And even there—among the throng of ‘Craig’s List’s’ oddities, I found I could still subdivide them into ‘needs’ and ‘wants’.

My very, dearest friends, and constant readers, for those of you yet unfamiliar with ‘Craig’s List’ (and, who is ‘Craig’, anyway?), it has become a widely-known compendium of offered services; work for trade; sales of just about anything that can be bought or sold, employment offers, and the infamous ‘personal’ advertisements, that sometimes beggar the credulity; but as my dear friend Luis once opined,”(whatever) That which you are seeking for, is also seeking you.”

By now, having perused it, in all its stained, and often venal glory, I think—at last—I have narrowed-down my search, in hopes to find that small evidence of my Bliss.  They are incontestably benign, but nevertheless reflect the odd chance, the ‘one-in-a-million’ opportunity; the ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ deal that bespeaks to both my ‘needs’, while taking into full consideration, my lack of funds.

1)           If only but I could, I would like to give my dear dog, Daisy, the “works”; baths to kill what fleas she has, and to make her skin supple, kill the constant itching; all her shots, and flea and heartworm treatment, plus medicine for her arthritis, and her missing fur; have her dental work taken care of; her nails trimmed (and, painted pink…for, after all, she is a lady); and treatment for her million allergies.

At fourteen, she deserves such comfort, beyond that which I can provide.  For over twelve years (since she first adopted my late mother and me), she has been more than a friend and a companion.  She eats when I eat, and follows me into the Study whenever I would want to use my computer.

And so very often—now—during nights where sleep for pain eludes me, if, in the usual course of events, I now find myself out in the kitchen, half asleep, I need only look to see her curled-up on the rug near me, snoring, lost in some old dog’s reverie.

Never once—in twelve years—has she stolen from me; made off with my medications; neither has she ever betrayed me, or involved me in a lie, nor attempted to hurt me in any way.  That kind of loyal caring rarely makes it way to a human set of ideals, and self-sacrifice.

Sometimes, I look at her while she’s asleep, and wonder why she both tolerates and trusts me…a trust that was never blind, but, rather, took years to build, as she had arrived to us most horribly abused.   I often wish that either she could speak, or that I could better know her mind, her wants, her needs.  And where—at fourteen, now, it hurts, and why, and how much.

I can only (barely, now), most painfully get down on the floor, beside her, to scratch her ‘tummy’; to pet her, telling her that she’s a beautiful girl, and to tell her over and over again, just how much I love my ‘buddy’ and my ‘pal’. Of course I pause to kiss her forehead, giving her a ‘million, puppy kisses’.  

2)           My kitchen. ‘B.W.I.H.M. ( back, when I had money), or, what was—in fact, left of it, I decided that since I rarely go out, cannot drive, have no car—instead—having to rely upon the often uncertain whims of my neighbors for shopping, etc., that if my house was to be my prison, that I would make of it as pleasant a prison as possible, indeligibly placing my mark upon it, making of it MY home; My story, and My saga.  I had built-in shelves torn out; donated lots of my mom and dad’s old furniture (don’t forget, after I returned home to stay, there ensued twenty-six years of utter sameness; not a book out of place, nor picture moved, and with drapes and carpets that were at least twenty years old), repurposed what furniture I could, and had that horribly old and stained carpet pulled up, new plywood and bamboo laminate installed.  I bought new curtains, on the cheap, and bought furniture that was on sale, close-outs, floor models, and some things that were even more on sale as they were ‘scratch-and-dent’, or had some little piece broken off, or, some little grant money, when it could be found.

Not all changes were vanity inspired, for, after all, the mobile home is thirty-four years old, and began to develop holes in the floor, a front door with no weather stripping, whose frame, in fact, had deteriorated.

As a hopeful caveat for all of you who must make home repairs, but do not have the ability to do so yourselves, based on my experience, I would most heartily recommend the following: A) Get EVERYTHING in writing, signed by both parties.  Have them keep within a reasonable degree to a budget; list everything you want done, and lastly, get a time estimate for how long the jobs will take.

In my case, the ‘contractor’ added new mini-blinds to all the windows not curtained, which was nice; but then, they never did put back what they had moved, or boxed up.  Its been a year + now, and I still have NO idea where the glass shelves to my mother’s curio cabinet are.

B) Because I knew them, and thought that I         could trust them, I mostly left them to their own devices, while I tried in vain to void ALL the noise !  They stuck my work in-between jobs, and NEVER worked an eight-hour day, or forty-hour week; and so, an estimated three-week job stretched out to almost three months.  And things from the original game plan just never got done…like a fireplace for the living room

3)           NEVER try to live in the middle of a major remodeling.  The noise of saws, and hammering scared hell out of Daisy, and threw my anxiety level into the stratosphere; had I to do it all again, I swear I would have grabbed up Daisy and my meds, and escaped to Aruba for two months.  For when they ‘did’ my bedroom, for example, dirt and clutter, and pieces of wood and nails littered the floor, and at the end of each day, I never knew where my bed would be. There’s nothing for the already, rattled nerves quite like the interrupted sound of sawing, followed by the crash of something being thrown, followed by a singled, uttered, “ SHIT !”.

4)           Always make sure that the workers are licensed and bonded, and that your project list does not exceed their ability to actually DO the work.

Hence, regrettably, when they were tired of working on my house, they simply stopped.  They never helped unwrap glassware, or knick-knacks, but left them—unidentified—in various boxes I still have yet to go through.

The ‘new’ walls look great, as does the crown molding they placed in most of the rooms; however, the master bedroom closet never had the laminate put down, and the ‘funds’ ran out before anything could be done in the kitchen.  And that had included painting it, repairing a corner of the ceiling, and putting new linoleum on the floor.

Now, whenever I chance to look-about the house, I am, for the most part satisfied…and grateful that as much work as was done got done. Of course, it didn’t help that the so-called ‘contractor’ was an alcoholic, and—when drunk—acted strange, silly, and extremely stupid.  Imagine my surprise when he telephoned me, one odd night, babbled on about things that made NO sense, and then signed off by calling me ‘sweetie’?  Tears of Christ.

3) A Grand Piano.  Although—by dint of struggle and strife—I have managed to keep a ‘Studio Upright’ that my mom and dad bought for me in 1967, when we were returning home from France (my dad was in the Army, stationed there; of anecdotal fact was that I was born in France in 1954, during dad’s first tour of duty there), having had to keep it in storage without climate control for years, rendered it impossible to retain tuning as the sound board was warped; but the casework was always beautiful, and inside—just by chance—was stamped the very town (Verdun) that I was born in, there never was a question of throwing it away, even though it is unplayable; it has too much sentimental value, and, currently has found a home in my bedroom, against a newly-painted, burgundy wall.  On the piano top I now have battery-run pillar candles, and a couple of my hats, and, strangely, does not look out of place across from the bed.

However, in my newly re-arranged living room, I now have ample space under a bay window for a grand piano, six feet, ten inches long, or seven feet, five inches long.  I have always wanted to have a grand piano in my home.  Why not a ‘Baby Grand’ you might ask?  Well, to be frank, my dearest friends, the length of the case determines the length of the strings; and while Baby Grands may look lovely, and take up much less room, the strings therein are much shorter, causing(to my mind and ears) tones that are shallow, shrill, and too ‘bright’.

Its only with the longer ‘Grands’, that the strings (and, coils for the bass notes) emit a deep sonority, and better expression. And a super ‘growly’ bass.

I have seen—and played concert Grands that were in excess of thirteen feet long; this is just too long for me, and makes the piano somehow look odd, and ill-shaped.  It may be perfect for the concert stage, but—frankly—is just too long to have in a home.

I already have an armchair the proper height, I hope, to place in front of the keyboard, as ‘regular’ piano benches have always given me lower back pain.

Of course, the casework could be ebony (black), or wood, and I especially like the French Provincial legs, and carvings.

It wouldn’t have to be in perfect shape, or of a certain age, as I would fully expect the case and legs to have nicks and scratched…not pieces broken off; the important thing would be that it stand up to moving, delivery and set-up, and retain a tune.  And besides the lovely tones, having such a piano in the house gives to it a certain éclat or élan (stylishly approving), making me—with my other oddities and eccentricities, a true ‘boulevardier’ (man about town), or, as my most dear friend, ‘Strenuba’ would doubtless say,” Now, there’s three words to take your hat off to.” And if I must abide in some cage of my own making, it may as well be gilded, ornate, and over-the-top.

‘Missed Chances, Damn Craig’s List, Anyway’

Once, while with nothing else to do, I again turned my fleeting attention to Craig’s List, and some offerings that had been already been a week into their posting.

There—something like four days earlier—I could NOT believe my surprise, for, yes, there was for sale, and Knabe Grand Piano, 7’5”, that had been languishing in a church Hall in St. Petersburg, a city maybe forty-five minutes away as the crow flies (personally, I never could understand that phrase, or of its validity; maybe, ‘as the crow drives’ would make better sense; but, friends, I fear that I digress).

The asking price was just $200.00 !!!!!!!, and the tiny Craig’s List photograph seemed to reveal an instrument that was infinitely still playable, and with most reasonable wear and tear.  I telephoned my cousin, and left for him a message telling him to please, please, please grab a friend, take his truck, buy the piano for me (as I would pay him back, and make the delivery worth his while).

It was—of course—long gone by then; I even suspect that it was sold the very day the ad came out.  Well...damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, had I only been but four days early, it well might have been mine.  And, it would have been perfect.

In my younger days, I used to compose for the piano, and while notation was as painful as trying to read Babylonian, I would record my compositions, and, if memory serves, I still have them, somewhere in a dusty and neglected bag, hidden in the closet.  Who even plays cassette tapes these days, anyway?

And while I have not played much since 1995, I now have diabetic neuropathy which has already claimed most of the feeling in the last three fingers of both my hands.  And so…dearest friends, I’d love to play—again—before I can no longer do so.

4)           A nice, substantial electric fireplace for my Study; my decorating scheme—as such—is a admixture of ‘Victorian; Museum; Steam Punk; Asian and African Art; plus ‘Found Things’; Art work that I have done; Silks and Damasks; with dark jewel-like colors everywhere; and Grecian, and Egyptian motifs’.

I find that I like elephants, as they imply wisdom, memory, and care-giving; I also like zebras, because—frankly—though they are uniquely beautiful, they are mean, vicious little bastards.  I know a nurse who somehow, with her late husband purchased two; she told me that—in feeding them hay with a pitchfork—one has to back slowly out of the feeding area, with pitchfork tines pointed at them, lest they suddenly attack.  Now, that’s gratitude for you.

5)           And lastly, because I’ve really gone on entirely too long, and besides, no one can really help me, even if they wanted to;  does anyone know an Editor who might be interested in my many, diary entries here at MDJ, for possible publication?  On many an occasion, my dearest friends, your comments have stated that I should seek publication.  I know I would truly love to see myself in print.  Maybe, someone out there in MDJunction Land knows of a sympathetic Editor?

Can magic still be worked?  And while—like so many, many videos, ask you to kindly click on the ‘like’ and ‘subscribe button’, still, I request some help from you, as all my solitary attempts have proven fruitless.

I know this entry has been too long, and has—perhaps, by now—weakened your kind attention.  Consider it sprung from a day’s loneliness and pain.  For which I most sincerely apologize.

Meanwhile, my dearest, truest friends, what does remain unchanged is my loyalty to you, and gratitude for your having befriended me; and, for ever granting me a pardon  for my elaborate hopes, dreams, desires, without which, there would be little point to continue on.

In my heart’s thanks, I can only wish for you days of lessened pain, or—better—of a complete relief from pain, depression, fractured thoughts, sadness or despairing.

I wish you be in full, surrounded by genuine love and caring.  May all your days be peaceful, with a quiet that soothes and comforts.  Of never knowing want, or need, of having sufficient to share.  Of strength to stand tall, in reporting abuse.

I also wish you balmy afternoons of quiet contemplation; able to capture in your mind’s eye, all the glory of Nature, and of Goodness, as well as Laughter’s ability to mend hearts and heal.

And at the closing of each day, I wish for you—not the exhaustion that pain can cause, but of a sleepy, dreamy tiredness that comes from having a kind, and untroubled soul.  I then wish for you the sleep we knew as children, innocent, and with clarity of mind; to sleep an undisturbed and blessed sleep, nurturing, and life-sustaining, kept ever safe and well by sweet angels to guard you through the night.

Please always know you occupy a large place in my heart.

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Hypersensitivity, And Its Role In General Panic And Anxiety Disorders"

” ‘ Hypersensitivity ‘, And Its Role In General Panic And Anxiety Disorders: A Brief Consideration…”

05/19/12

As ever to my most special, and most dear friends, and constant, loyal readers,

I must begin my thoughts with the note that in no way, am I a professional.  I am not a Therapist, or, licensed in any way, and so….whatever I may wish to share with you is that which is my own opinion; open to discussion, more educative approaches, and—as such—I present it to you, hoping that you may find it to be of some, small help to you, engendering your own opinions on the subject. Nevertheless, it is the product of my thought, my concern for you, consisting of memory, reading, former experience, and inference.  However, I feel the subject important enough that it needs to me mentioned, even though, as has been said, some truths are—in the main—‘self-evident’.

I would like to start by saying that, for those individuals who have been diagnosed with ‘Panic’, or ‘Anxiety Disorders’, whether generalized or not, a very major part of suffering and loss of quality of life is directly due to ‘Hypersensitivity’ to ordinary stimuli, which—at one time—was perhaps caused by exposure to stimulus that was NOT normal, in either amplitude, or duration.

However long the exposure was, how determined life-threatening, or dangerous the stimulus was—at that time, perceived—it became the focus for all subsequent like stimuli, gradually spreading to related forms, all, producing unavoidable anxiety, and fear, and the feelings of dread, and need to escape.

There are several things to mention having been so exposed:

1)           A terrible Fear Reaction was invoked; no matter how ‘modern’ or ‘sophisticated we think we have become, once a primitive (in origin) survival, fear reaction is invoked, the ‘trigger’ will remain, and that primitive part of the subconscious linked to life and death avoidance is a most profound, and powerful trigger; after all, it kept us safe from predators, cautioned us in the necessity and use of fire, and included other fears such as that of drowning, ‘fight or flight’ when confronting attack from other humanoid groups, etc.  Even though these so-called, ancient fears are well-over fifty-thousand years (or more) in the making, how relevant many are still today!

2)           Over time, reactions to fear stimuli become more general, why…I cannot say, for reason should tell us that there is a marked and distinct difference between, say, once having almost trod upon a live, and possibly poisonous snake, to-in the young, especially—finding oneself uncomfortable seeing snakes kept safely behind glass, to feeling uneasy upon seeing stuffed, toy snakes, to finally reacting negatively to simple pictures of snakes.  Or, kindly ponder a moment our ‘generalized’ reactions to spiders !, to the point of feeling extreme and uncontrollable anxiety upon the mere sight of a spider in the room. Or mice. Some react with such fear (remember generalization!) , and will not go near a spider, even a dead one.  Surely, this may be thought irrational, as the ‘trigger’: the spider is now dead, and probably wrapped in two yards of toilet paper, to be flushed down the toilet.

3)           Regarding the generalization of negative stimuli, how many people who fear snakes, fear spiders, and fear roaches?  Could they be but other, fear-inspiring, primitive survival memories?  If so, then why the fear and intense dislike of roaches?

For the person who has ‘ Generalized Panic And Anxiety Disorders ‘, other factors come into play, and all are serious, though, as with many ‘Disorders’, they are—by family members, friends, co-workers—not easily understood, and sometimes, not readily tolerated, which inevitable causes stress and anxiety and the inability to cope worse because—to them—they are not so afflicted, nor can they see the tragic and painful consequences of such a unavoidable, and compromised life.  Thus, everyone becomes miserable in their own way, and social dynamics simply fall apart.

As ‘triggers’ become more generalized, the person will often equate them with that which is perceived of as unknowable, intolerable, frightening, invoking a fear-avoidance reaction.

Thus, a patient may become afraid of a world that cannot be ornately and completely made safe and reliable.  To add to the misery, one’s feelings vary from day to day, moment to moment, even hour to hour, until it is found much easier to remain home, or even in one’s room, or in one’s bed. One’s considered ‘safe zones’, or those that do not produce feelings of dread or fear can also change.

For example, personally, I have become less ‘sensitized’ until I can walk outside to board the County bus to take me to a doctor’s appointment, perhaps fifteen miles away from the assumed ‘safety’ of my home, and yet, too often, I cannot go out to the mailbox, to check my mail, and, although I have a resin ‘bistro set’ on my back deck, I have never sat out there, not do I with any regularity prowl-about my backyard.  I find this notion clinically fascinating, although it still very much installs mental ‘fences’ around myself, and the subsequent inability to expand my ‘safe zones’ a mystery.

It very much has to do with something I wish to speak to you about.  A concurrent ‘Hypersensitivity’, that I presume is a first product of the primitive subconscious in avoidance behavior, that passes to the conscious mind, and, as far as I can tell, remains in place, and at work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, during wakefulness.  And even passes obliquely into the scattered subject of dreams.

I cannot emphasize too much, the role of hypersensitivity in everyday life, for we are at base social creatures (harking back—perhaps—to the implied safety of the ‘Tribe’), and we find that every psycho/social contract is affected.  A grocery store may make one fearful, but it is the drive in uncertain traffic that becomes the trigger.

While one stranger is still viewed with some normal suspicion, a hundred, or two hundred of them tips the avoidance scale.

And hypersensitivity affects our moods at any time; thus even a word, a feeling an implied emotion can have differing, varying responses by those thus diagnosed.  A joke can make one cry, as can an offhand word; a television program or movie may become intolerable to watch, when once it was watched without negative response.  Family members or friends are baffled, and do not know exactly what to say that is considered ‘safe’.  Tensions mount, until the entire family unit is upset. Until reunions, and harmless ‘get-togethers’ are no longer planned for.

I emphasize this tendency to be hypersensitive, as I believe it to be a major part, not widely spoken of, of Panic and Anxiety Disorders, and their proposed treatment.

1)           The very first approach is to seek out professional help; Psychiatrists being familiar with the condition, able to speak openly, and honestly with the patient, to describe reactions, possible triggers, past, potential, causal events, as well as current life situations.  Often, he or she can prescribe the appropriate medication as may be needed to relieve the ‘hot spots’ of panic, anxiety, or dread.

2)           This should be combined with effective therapy to increase the patient’s knowledge, and to reassure them that they are not—in fact—‘crazy’, but afflicted with a Disorder that is treatable.

3)           ‘De-sensitizing therapy’, or, Cognitive Behavioral therapy, can help by lessening the effects of both triggers, and resultant panic and anxiety behavior.

And I cannot underestimate the ‘healing’ role of a supportive, loving family, and friends, to the person so diagnosed with—frankly—any psycho/social disorder.

Both spouses and children (who, hopefully are both loving and caring) will soon know the patient’s limits.  Being unsupportive will not help; being unkind or intolerant will not help; being verbally sarcastic will not help. Neither will ignoring the situation, feeling that it—somehow—will resolve itself in time will help.

What WILL in fact help enormously, is understanding, and education; of—if possible—and where indicated, attending therapy sessions, or watching pertinent videos will help.  A concerted attempt to avoid, but very gradually, the themes that seem to be triggers.  Sometimes, a situation once to be avoided at all costs, may be gently explored by ‘safe’ family members or friends who can—with the afflicted person move most gradually to the implied limits of a trigger.  This involves the absolute trust of the patient, who becomes certain that that person will never hurt them, or allow them to be exposed to harm.

Patience, trust, tolerance, trust, time and…love will help in ways unimaginable; the goal is to—with ancillary treatment modalities—lessen the unease, avoidance, and, most of all, the hypersensitivity of the afflicted person.

Yes, the person may evidence intense Agoraphobia; perhaps some Obsessive/Compulsive behaviors as the person who is active suffering tries to lessen anxiety by trying—for example—to create rigid order in the house, or of reliable habit, etc.  This is an attempt, often a desperate one to try to keep chaos and uncertainty at bay. Incontestably, the world—outside—is full of all sorts of unknown, and unknowable variables.  Many of them fraught with REAL, potential dangers that exist far-outside one’s ability to control.

One may also expect contrary moodiness, the frequent need for quiet.  Hypersensitivity does not—in general—respond well to loud noises, over-bright lights, too much motion, or over-quick changes. Crowds, or crowded places.  Too many cars, almost anything that can be prefixed by the words: too much.

I hope to have made more clear the role of ‘Hypersensitivity’ in Panic and Anxiety Disorders, and what you (as patient), and you (as friends and family members) can do to ease the intense suffering, further understanding, and…to facilitate the healing process.

I must confess to you, my very, very dearest, and supportive friends, and welcome, loyal readers, that my exposition, within the scope of being a ‘diary entry’. Must—perforce—be most limited; and that persons differ as situations and approaches differ.  I—too—have been diagnosed with—among other things: ‘Acute Anxiety and Panic Attacks; Severe Depression with Agoraphobia, so you may rely upon my feelings coming from my heart; these psychiatric diagnoses, along with many medical ones have drastically reshaped my life.  And—frankly—at my age (I am fifty-eight), I feel the press of time and circumstance to weigh most heavily upon me; yet, in my sincere gratitude for you befriending me so that I somehow feel less alone, my mind AND heart would seek to speak with you.

And, should I prove wrong in any way, I hope that with your kind PM’s and comments, you will correct me if you will.  For any misinformation is wrong, and hardly my intent.

Meanwhile, my precious friends, please allow me to wish for you days of lessened or of ‘no pain’; and that you be full-surrounded by loving familys  and friends who genuinely care for you.  I wish for you a quiet day of ease, of blessings, and to not know want; please, please always report abuse should you even suspect it.  And I wish for you a quiet evening unto night, and a glowing calmness, free from fear.  I wish you peace and—at day’s end—a wonderfully warm, descent into a dreamy sleepiness, and sleep that is refreshing, sound, and restorative, knowing that you are loved and cherished, and kept ever safe by angels to protect you, and to keep foul nightmare far, far away. And I ever wish you all the love and happiness that your kind hearts can hold.

Please know I think about you often, and that I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Flying Monkeys "

“  Flying Monkeys  “

05/18/12

Oh…my very, very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers, I do think of you often, and hope that you’re feeling better, made comfortable, and loved, cared-for by both family and friends; your days as sweet as the Dandelion wine my Grandfather used to ‘put up’ in the basement during the “Great Depression”.

I always wish you well and safe, free from any lingering distress that you may have, so that you know a lingering peace—instead—with sleep that restores; waking ever from dreams of blissful happiness, to find that happiness had wakened long before you, and was patiently waiting for you to get up, and begin yet another, blessed day.

Preamble:  I

I must admit my frank surprise to you, dear friends, that when I first embarked upon this reverie, I was SURE that—in the title—the word was spelled, ‘Monkies’. This was axed by spell check, leaving me to telephone my local library  (wherein, they doubtless think me mad….as I have made calls like this to them before!), to find that the ‘correct’, proper, ‘third-person singular (or, whatever)’ spelling was—in fact: ‘Monkys’--which to me somehow, did not look right;  further search by the Reference Section, determined that it be “Monkeys’, so, I can hardly argue with either them, or with Merriam Webster, so… right or wrong, it will always be, ”Monkeys” for me!  I cannot tell you what crushing weight was removed from my chest in finally finding out the truth.

But…in my secret heart, wherein pots of gold from neglected rainbows can still be found, along with unicorns, and faeries, and all things still magical, somewhere, ‘Monkies’ will remain; chock-a-block with Mad Hatters, Pirates, Dragons, and Angels.  These I absolutely make NO excuse for, and I am glad that they are there, if nowhere else.

Preamble:  II

On seldom, rare, and wondrous occasions my dear friends, when—at last—the pain pills slowly begin to make known some desired effect, and--for a little while--most of these damned agonies retreat to a bearable distance (though, never completely out of sight), I sometimes­­--with a cup of fresh coffee--and my cigarettes, sit back with eyes half-closed (all the better so as to not spill the coffee, or—perhaps—place the cigarette in my ear, I guess).

I try to make myself as comfortable as I can in the office chair in my so-called ‘Study’; granted, calling it my ‘Study’ is pure pretense, since it is—in fact—my former bedroom, which currently houses my computer, office furniture (an old bedroom set my mom and dad bought for me from Sears when I was nine !); a china cabinet of assorted memories, and a pretty ‘wingback’ recliner, a round rug, hand-woven in India, AND, myself, of course. And Daisy!

Eventually, I see an electric fireplace here, and more shelves for knick-knacks—some of which have been saved, now, for half a century—and

books, and pictures on the walls, a table to hold my humidor of cigars, next to the chair, all done up, and secure, with dear Daisy curled-up upon the rug, near me; how pleasant is the picture that it conjures up.

It seemed rude and somehow indecorous to just call it a ‘man cave’, or a ‘den’; and even I have not aspired to such vain gloried revelries to ever call it my ‘Library’, since it IS a double-wide, mobile home after all.

Nonetheless, during these brief respites from the admixed torture of assorted agonies, and of migraine that would sap all my attention like some ravening, black hole, I set my thoughts afloat…’wool gathering’, what it once was called; or, ‘day-dreaming’, if you prefer.

Most anywhere else than on troubles and trials of the day, and the recurring themes of insufficient ‘money’, or of what can I possibly later have for supper? Or wondering IF there IS anything for supper.

No, my friends, while these ramblings may be  the product of an idle mind, God bless ‘em, too, as I find it perfectly acceptable—necessary, even—to at times, make good my escape.

And since they are quite without direction, or motive, or desire, I never quite know what—in the now, dusty, cobwebbed filing cabinets that compose my mind—will bubble up to the surface…to madly mix my metaphors.

So, for some unfathomable reason, this afternoon, I found myself thinking of:

“  Flying Monkies “

Of course, my dearest friends, by now, everyone on the planet has seen the film, “The Wizard Of Oz”, at least a thousand times, unless—of course—Ted Turner bought it up, as he did with, “It’s a Wonderful Life” (and good thing, too, as one year at Christmas, on cable TeeVee, I found it showing on no less than twenty-three channels, until it became like the sound of nails across a blackboard; ‘though, I will admit, I liked “Pottersville” much more, thinking it   more fun and interesting!  If your memory is still good, can you recall a scene of hookers being forcibly removed into police vans, from a dance hall called the ‘Apache’ ?

Nevertheless, the ‘Wizard Of Oz’—seen, now, about every Easter—made in 1939, somehow, even when I was young did not exactly throw me into thralls of wondrous delight, nor, peals of laughter.  In fact, I found a lot of the Technicolor parts to be too bright, too loud, and too frenzied.

Instead, I much-preferred (and still do), the sepia-toned, black and white segments before the whole “Oz” part; I loved the tornado, the blustering of the increasing wind across a simple Kansas farm; personally—and a psychiatrist might find of it to be of some interest now—I loved the part where Dorothy, upon checking out an empty house, finds that all have retreated to the safety of a storm cellar, in effect, saving their own asses, locking her out.

Notice that beyond a perfunctory call or two by ‘Auntie Em’, when it came down to brass tacks, folks, no one gave a shit about Dorothy, or her obnoxious, little dog, “Toto”, which was fine, as I hated them, too. Even though I was very young when first I saw the movie, other parts annoyed me equally as much.

For instance, say what you will, I hated ALL the ‘Munchkins’, and—in much later years—mused about the potential effects of dropping upon ‘Munchkin Land’, a one or two megaton bomb, actually, same as by the “Grinch” upon “Who-ville”, God… I couldn’t stand their stupid piousness, especially, “Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two!” Now go and put a ‘ting-ting-la’, in your, ‘Fah-who-for-aze…’!

Now, please do not mistake my almost carnal love for Dunkin Donut’s Munchkins, actually, a brilliant, marketing idea, on what to do with all those unused pieces of dough from the center of a doughnut; for, late at night—sometimes—I

think I would gladly kill, for a large bucket of the glazed, and white, powdered sugar versions, with about a quart of milk!

But, as usual on these cloud-like journeys, I digress.

Back we go to ‘Oz’, and all its machinations.  I also found that I most intensely disliked the “Good Witch”, of wherever.  Played by Billie Burke, her accent and her voice were as painful as imps from hell, playing my spine like a

xylophone.  I did find fascinating, the notion of a witch getting ‘offed’ by a falling house.  What would be the odds of that?

And somehow, after due consideration, I found that scene of the “yellow brick road” (especially where it describes an intersection out among unrecognizable fields of endless corn) to be a metaphor for life, and…sure as shootin’, friends, the passage of my life DID seem to be not unlike some journey of the subconscious, along an unmarked road that began--as life begins—at some single point, at birth, to spiral out and beyond, unmarked; often with no direction, but as an admitted sameness.  Sigh.   Life—however bland—is never static for, like that intersection of yellow brick, that appears as if from nowhere, leading—perhaps—to somewhere, to destinations that at the moment we are not privileged to see; we thus, for the most part—then—make our judgments and decisions based—not so much on fact—but rather chance or faith that, no matter what, all will in general, be well.

This is the mystery of the ‘journey’, and the ‘Quest’, wherein none of the puzzle-pieces fit together ‘till the end.  Should we turn this way or that? At each branching of the road, we make our choices, and take our chances, not knowing what may be ahead; these are the risks we blindly face.

And yet, what would—at first—seem to be random, and unpredictable, finally—I most sincerely hope—will full-describe an ordered path…with every turn linked—somehow—to every other turn; it is the realm of ‘Trickster Gods’; of obstacles, and riddles posed by an otherwise silent, yet, imposing Sphinx.

The path(s) ahead, are different for each one of us, but all of us must choose.  We all hope to choose both wisely, and well, and—except for some occurrence of apparent self-destruction (for that is an option too)—I think that we succeed.

I liked the ‘Wicked Witch’, especially as she so closely resembled my bitch of a Grandmother; yes, friends, even children know when they’re loved, and when they are only treated with indifference and frequent punishings.

The ‘evil’ witches’ castle guards—with their grey, radiator- painted hands and faces did not startle me, nor did the first sight of the mighty ‘Wizard’.  Too many metaphors would find later expression in life.

“Poppies…pretty poppies”…oh but could I—too—be made as drowsy, wanting nothing more than total, ‘light’s out’ sleep.  I crave it now much more than I did then.

However, midst the tawdry dreck, what petrified the absolute pure, bat-shit out of me (and, still disquiets) were those goddamn, flying monkeys;  I found them to be nasty, spooky, horrific, and in their masses, relentless, over-powering, inescapable, the perfectly combined substance of haunting nightmare.  And indeed, those little bastards gave me bad dreams, from which I could not find protection from, or hiding place, nor any solace; in a hundred, nightmared-dreams they chased me, and all I could see were monkey claws and teeth.  What teeth!  And an evil visage upon each one.  Oh how I hated them!  And still do!

Years later, now, in cheaper, novelty catalogues, references can regularly be found to them, on mugs, and magnetic, refrigerator magnets, and upon variously-sized signs to hang in any room.

 They’re now considered to be an iconic, comic warning of impending, easy ire, which--I can understand—alerting all, of possessing a short fuse, or an intolerance against challenge, or simply, in a kind of, “I told you so!” advertisement  that the person who dwells within will likely go from ‘zero to bitch’ in five second’s flat.

And, come now to think of it, in consideration of all that is pointless, venal, stupid, or willfully destructive in the world, and in my life…perhaps a warning mug, “Don’t Make Me Summon The Flying Monkeys!” wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all.

And so, my very special, dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers, thus I have passed-away another afternoon, unto evening, peaceable preoccupied.  Too soon—untreated—I already feel the pangs of onrushing pain, which I must attend to, as well as somehow figure out just what-in-hell there’s left for supper.

Its twice as hard—somehow—to decide when the cupboard’s bare, as when it is full to overflow.  Strange, huh?

And so, with your most kind permission, I shall close for now, now that base realities are settling in, again, and all need tending to.  But…it was fun, while it lasted, wasn’t it ?

Please do take care, and know I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Another Goddamn, Useless Night, And Empty Day..."

“ Another Goddamn, Useless Night, And Empty Day: A Bitter, Angry Essay, As—Soon—I Shall ‘Celebrate’ Ten Years Of Failing Disability, And, For What?  “

05/18/12

My wonderful, and ever-dear, and constant friends, and patient, loyal readers, I remain ever grateful for your having befriended me, with all my obvious faults, and lack of character; it is obvious that you—in your kindness, and caring  see something that I cannot see; and I truly thank you for ignoring all the glaring flaws that I CAN see, and detest in myself.  Yet, in your support, and of staying by me, I know I could not stand alone.

Each of you is precious beyond pearls in your own ways, and I seek pardon from you, even as I seek forgiveness from a God I sometimes think has in full abandoned me when you have not.  So many times—now, through the course of another night of agony, migraine, depression so deep, that I cannot see the bottom of it into days that pass in languid despair—it is YOU who, made in flesh and sinew, have become the Angels that I ask for.

You help sustain me, when in utter disgust, I cannot sustain myself; you are as tiny, welcoming stars in an otherwise bleak and blackened firmament; your calm, welcomed, and reasoned voices help stay my hopeless rage, when all that I can do is rock in a pain severe-enough to make me cry and cry in sadness and in pain no one should ever have to endure…and yet I know you have your pain too, and so I love you for making room for me within your hearts.  And part of your families, when I am so awfully alone.

And so I have pledged to be ‘there’ for you, and by your side, to help protect you, and should any, little, well-intentioned part of my entries prove to be of any help to you, then—my most dear friends—my lonely heart is made happy.  I am both gratified and thankful to you when you read my diary posts, and I treasure every comment you may care to make.

I—for the most part--am pleased with my entries here at MDJ, and hope that I have not become so tedious with the frequent repetitions of my ailments, which seem to grow and grow larger with each year.  Soon, my friends, I shall have been ‘disabled’ for ten years.  And in that decade have watched as both mind and body have slowly but inexorably been torn apart.  Each year, it seems my collective ‘conditions’ find me less and less able to function, mentally, or physically, until now, when I often want to do nothing at all, save stay in bed, and keep well-medicated.

But it is not my want to thus toss-away a day, ‘though darkest, deep depression will cycle in, and must be endured until it wanes; and—even then—it leaves me in a fog, dull-witted and heavy headed, and bereft of purpose or of action as the ensuing, ‘depression hangover’, slowly leaves my system.  I find that migraines do the same thing.

And with each bout of pain, despairing, or depression, I feel—somehow—a little piece is jaggedly torn from me, not unlike ripping a coupon out of a magazine.

Few and fewer things now give me purpose, or direction, or hope, or pleasure, or reason to live.  I have little family, and none of us are close; I have no spouse, nor precious children to hold near my heart. I fully know that I am indulging, now, in rampant self-pity, for which I apologize.

“ A Not Untypical Night… And How Was Your’s?  “

05/18/12

I am beginning to just give up, as some lost cause, any regulated, and reliable sleep; if a bathroom call does not disturb me, there’s always a ‘Reader’s Digest’ stack of saved nightmares to wake me up.  Maybe, Daisy will want out; perhaps my sleep is too shallow to maintain, despite the sleeping pills. Granted, there are those among you who—especially when so medicated—could fall asleep while standing up (I actually saw this once, at work!), it seems I could swallow half the bottle just to make my eyelids heavy.

Any errant noise—outside—will startle me awake, as will the beginnings of an early morning storm.  At that first, precise crack of thunder is followed by the shock wave that ‘bumps’ at the house, I am awake and out of bed.

Two nights—ago—somehow my inner alarm failed to wake me to the bathroom, and, some time after 3:00 AM, I woke to find myself drenched, disgusted, and mad as hell.  So now I have to wear ‘Depends’, lest I ruin a mattress I cannot possibly afford to replace?

Infants wet themselves all the time, and nothing is thought amiss; my idiot cousin in Kansas (and may he, and his sister always find of it a better clime!) wet the bed, until he was thirteen.  How he must have been embarrassed, especially on a rare, sleep-over at my Aunt’s house, when—after looking at a late night, double feature horror film we shared the same bed, when—voila—his tiny bladder would be as empty as his tiny skull, and he would wet us both; I awoke to find the sheets wet.  He would snooze through it, only wakening when I reached over and punched him…at least once or twice.

Of course, (and this is only PART of why I so dislike him AND his sister) the little bastard would start to cry, waking his mommy and the rest of the house, where there then began a routine worthy of the Marx brothers, as mommy sat on a dry spot on the bed to dry his ‘widdle tears’, while looking at me with daggers drawn.

Sheesh, no wonder I couldn’t stand any of them, though they did have one, remaining grace: a swimming pool, with all the pool toys in existence, and an actual, real, genuine, be-damned juke box that didn’t require money!!!! How many times—that summer, and others—did I listen to Nat King Cole’s rendition of: “Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days Of Summer”!  I still think that having one’s own juke box to be as bathed in fortune, and ‘High Fidelity’.

But I digress, as so often I do nowadays.

By the time I had changed out everything, with mind still full of champagne and cobwebs, I was too awake to fall back into any semblance of sleep; and so, I lumbered out to the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee.  By now, it was something-past 4:00 AM.  Again, I sat out in the kitchen (now, my ‘second’ bed), had a cup or two of coffee, and fell asleep from six ‘til seven, or so.

I telephoned my dear friend Joan, who was just getting up; my dear friends, although I love her dearly, she can go to bed, and fall asleep in five minutes or less, says she doesn’t dream (or, at least does not remember any she may have), and can wake to hit the bathroom during the night, and then fall back instantly to sleep. G-r-r-r-r-r.  AND, get this, without any sleeping medication whatsoever!  Maybe it’s a ‘pay-back’ blessing from Providence for her generosity, her openness, her kindness and radiance of spirit, and tender, sweet, forgiving heart.  Not like me, folks, for sometimes I suspect that the nightly devils that I fight are ones of my creation, in part payment for my being such an ill-tempered, stubborn, and sometimes just an old, evil-minded jerk who must have—of necessity—frequent, little chats with my Creator for some much-needed course correction.

And while I don’t think I ever set out to hurt anyone (I could’ve socked my rat’s ass cousin harder, really, than I did), the list of things for which I seek atonement easily rivals, now, the list of all that I am truly thankful for.

We each must find our way; make our beds (mine, twice!), and lie in them.  Thank Heaven I have nothing that warrants my attention today as well, and providing Daisy isn’t sound asleep in doggy dreamland I have vowed to set her upon anyone who disturbs ANY kind of rest I may be able to salvage, today.

For my poor eyelids are as half-drawn as old window shades.  And I’m tired, besides.  Brother…what a way to start a weekend; otherwise, every day is a clone of the other, so that ‘calendar’ time is just a place to write upcoming appointments on.

And should the constant intake of pain medication save the day, then—perhaps—I’ll find some needed rest, by and by.  I hope.

And so, to all my dearest, dearest friends and readers, can I still wish you ‘goodnight’ if it is almost 10:00 AM?

Please always know, I love you 24/7!

‘Zahc’/Charles