I lay in the dark last night and cried a bit.
Then began the nighttime staring upward.
I observed our universal ceiling. No stars wrinkled to tinkle.
I whispered:
“God, please help me.”
“Dad, please help…”
“Mom, please, can you help?”
It was a plea to a trinity of spiritual parents. Beings who still hug me. In Spirit.
They shout, “Be brave. Help yourself!”
They cheer me on.
They’re right.
Help lately seems to come in the form of hugging myself and trees more often.
Staying in child’s pose longer.
Reading more books.
Resting.
Suffice it to report, I’m exhausted from a past that felt, too often, outside my locus of control.
I’m both literally and figuratively = Spent.
The records prove I’m not a bank. My life has been a scientifically driven wildfire in a financially biased world.
There is no insurance for those fires here. It isn’t even available.
The reports about me lie there in the ash. They’ve been decaying there for quite a while.
I don’t think of or talk much about the past and its reports anymore. Let others tally their perceived losses of time.
If it’s a human race, I “lost” time too. Time stopped existing for me in the running from a past.
The fire inside though, that remained.
“I” remain in that fire.
With every medical visit, there is another spark added to a new medical and financial report.
Another log.
Another flare.
Another slow burn.
They say I need their expertise. That I need pharmaceuticals.
I do what is seemingly required. The bare minimum.
I’m still not convinced that their ideas about a healthy life will be my long-term approach.
Memories of wise minds like Vincent van Gogh and Virginia Woolf surface, too.
Diagnoses from years ago still haunt me sometimes. This is a story of a haunting.
I am with you in the spirit of reading it.
Each doctor’s words have changed my story. Each has become another author.
I evolve on repeat with new science, experiments, and experts.
I can’t keep up with them all most of the time. I spent nearly all the time I’m willing to offer in return for theirs.
I also can’t afford more words to describe being my own style of human.
I am the fire.
A rare one.
I’m unique.
Undiagnosable.
*
I am:
that I am.
*
I am participating in both conventional and non-conventional healthcare for now, without accepting that it gets to define health for the rest of my life.
Medication is a choice I continue to make.
Normal is not the goal.
Learning myself is.
*
I’m not part of some quiet current called normal.
If that calm even exists.
My guess? It doesn’t.
Storms abound.
“God” is like that.
Gnarly, She is that, too.
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I’m not a part of what may appear to be a quiet wave of existing. If that calm norm even exists.
What is normal and true is that my body and health have become vital instruments for me to learn.
Laughing yoga.
Writing yoga.
Vocal yoga.
Piano.
Yoga.
I am about all these words and more.
Creatively curious.
Now, it’s sunrise and time to go do yoga, sing to the birds, skip the sidewalks, and play a chain-link fence like a piano.
I’ll whisper musical words to my future self. In spirit, I am with you there.
I’ll high-five a few tree branches for you today, dear Reader.
Kind regards,
Another human Reader.
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