Inchworm

Good morning, dear reader(s), so I come to you extremely well-rested, after yesterday’s painful early morning wake-up. Many things are swirling through my mind, as I work to piece together why I got so, erm, “confused” (according to the hospital) last October/November. As I relayed previously, I now have a pretty bad “fear phobia” (for lack of a better descriptor) of Facebook, the national televised newscast at 6:30, highway driving, I’m slightly suspicious of YouTube (though it gives me good laughs), NextDoor, and also a few other things that I’m inching along trying to figure out as I continue on my recovery journey.

Something hit me like a lightning bolt yesterday morning, when I recalled how frightened I got back in 2020 when I was on a California AA Zoom meeting and was exposed to a Zoom bomber revealing his genitals during our meeting. It completely traumatized me, and I’m convinced this started the chain reaction of my fear phobia building inside of me. I’m finding myself right now extremely angry with the perpetrators, I don’t know who they are, I don’t care if they are bored, alienated teenagers from broken homes, how dare they violate the safe space of recovering alcoholics! I think someone should be studying all this, maybe fining Zoom (who raked in all that cash during the pandemic), I really, really want to know if there are other bipolars out there who have been traumatized like I have…

Let me tell you that right before I completely crumbled and had to beg Michael to take me to the hospital this last time, I slumped on the toilet in our tiny bathroom off the kitchen, feeling like I was with John McCain in a pit in Vietnam, it was so bad, so awful, I wanted to howl out for help but I knew no one would understand what I was going through. This, my friends, is why I feel so at home at Vets Memorial, why, although I have never formally served in the U.S. Armed Forces, I feel like I belong right there with the men and women who went through combat, some imprisonment, some death.

The twisted reality of bipolar psychosis/delusions/hallucinations/even “confusion” (probably anxiety-related) is in my opinion, probably similar to weaving your way through an explosive mine field. Maybe this is why now,  in sanity once again, I’m weaving my way through these Columbus streets, looking for answers to a long, strange trip I’ve traveled. In my basement are three or so large pieces of art that sit on a table directly underneath our dishwasher where the rats chewed through the water line—the cascading water almost destroyed them completely yet there are still moldy remnants of what I was trying to capture: a primal scream out for help. I to this day am frightened to look at those pieces, yet don’t ask Michael to throw them in the trash. Perhaps I will get up the nerve to take my trusty iPhone down there and shine the flashlight upon them…but not today.

Perhaps I will never get my retribution against those who have harmed me in days long gone by. I guess I have my sessions with Fetter to sift through all the wreckage and baggage I now carry. There is also my continuing art projects (note to self: do not miss the exhibit of veteran’s art at the museum!), plus continuing to push myself to read all my beloved books in my bookshelves here (starting with “Walker Evans: The Hungry Eye”). My healing process is going to take some time, but fortunately I’ve got family and a few good friends and acquaintances helping me along the way. I did get a reply from The New York Times that they are intrigued by my (subtle) suggestion of a story about influential cook books for young (at heart) minds. I hope they publish something—might finally get me to pay for a digital subscription to their newspaper!

Here’s to all those healing and recovering today. One Day At A Time.