Back at Wit's End

The change was abrupt.
I was treading water, then
At the bottom, drowned.

*     *     *     *     *

I thought Summer was starting.  I thought I was gaining momentum.  I thought I was possibly getting better.

I still may be, but it doesn't feel that way at the moment.

Just days ago, I was on the verge of getting a puppy.  It didn't happen.

*     *     *     *     *

I have been telling myself that the Moore, OK tornado is what sent me into depression, but it was before that tragedy.

It was the puppy.

I admitted to myself just how alone and empty I have been, and am.

It's a harsh reality I knew, but had not accepted.

So, I had decided, even though it will be difficult physically, that I need the puppy.  The physical cost is necessary.  My emotional state is desperate.  I'll take more pain for a bit of love.

Then, it didn't happen.  Wrong puppy.

And I'm left feeling very empty.

*     *     *     *     *

I'll keep looking, but I won't just jump at the first available dog.

There has to be a bit of magic.  There was with Matilda.

I won't get another without some kind of feeling that it's the dog for me.

I could use something good to happen along the way though, cause I'm back at Wit's End, that cul de sac off Insane Way.

One Odd Action

I did the jog, swim, jog thing on Thursday, the weather having returned to warmth.

It was interesting, to say the least.  My upper arms and shoulders are really finding a new position, and during the jog home, I found myself much more upright than usual, without the effort it would normally take to concentrate on remaining so.

Last night, however, I had a terrible time trying to eat.  My throat just wouldn't let me swallow.

It is not fun to spend a whole day alone.  Then, when the wife and kid finally return, and I spend 40 minutes choking, coughing, and spitting in the bathroom because I tried to eat dinner, the day goes from unfun to shit.

Anyways, I hit the spa after my daughter went to bed.  There, while trying to trace some of the tensions, I ended up (as best as I can express) swallowing my throat with my neck.

It's the best description I can come up with.

Picture a snake with a mouse half in it's mouth.  It's swallowing motion to send the mouse a bit further in it's mouth is what I am getting at.

It was like the muscles in my neck were able to swallow my throat a bit further down towards my chest.

It felt pretty odd.  I was quite overwhelmed for a while.

*     *     *     *     *

The kicker was that I was able to swallow food afterwards, with only slight discomfort, compared to the complete inability a few hours before.

Moreover, it seems to have freed up some more of my right shoulder.  The jog, swim, jog was much more productive today, and the seeming change of posture during the jog, being more upright, was even more pronounced with very little effort.

And the dizziness stints were very minor today.

Such a roller coaster.

Weeeeeeeeeee!

My Leftists Agenda

[An update as to the latest issue.]

The progress has continued, though the swimming has slowed with a return of cooler weather.

I've gotten strength in parts of my shoulders which never had them before.  This, in turn, allows them to move to new extremes and several releases have been quite promising.  I, too, can perform a controlled back arch that I couldn't have imagined only weeks ago.

Yet, a problem has finally surfaced which I have long feared, and hinted at before.

I have long noted that my two sides seem to reflect issues.  The right shoulder needs to develop one way, the left the other.

Most often, however, when I try to stretch, or make adjustments, I use both arms the same way.

More often than not, I assume, this has been harmless, as the adjustment occurs on one side, where the other side maintains the status quo.  It may have been a longer process because of this, but progress was still happening.

Now, I am not so sure.

My left thumb, quite easily, becomes a lightning rod of pain.  It's like the tendon going along the side of the thumb to the left wrist is pulled too tight, from the shoulder, and any pressure on the thumb brings intense, rather sharp pain.

I can do an adjustment to the left shoulder (I can't quite explain it - it's like pulling the arm up the shoulder, which sends slack to multiple other places), and the pain instantaneously goes away.

However, I have as yet been unable to identify what I am doing that returns the left arm to this painful position.  I only know I do it as soon as I let my guard down, and I do not maintain attention anywhere near as well as I did 7 years ago.  It's been happening 10-15 times each of the past 4-5 days.

Don't get me wrong.  The pain level has gone up, but it is not as mentally taxing as when I feel like a knot exists that I cannot figure out how to undo.  I am not at wit's end over it.

At least not yet [knocks on the desk].

There is a part of me that envisions this puzzle as one of the last.  Should I figure out how to properly rehab both arms at the same time (a maneuver that will no doubt feel awkward as all hell at first), I will find myself on a path much more directed towards where I want to be.

One can hope, anyways.

Change The Channel (A Political, Apolitical, Rant)

[While I spent a great portion of my last sleepless night going through different ways to extrpulate on the "braid" concept, which included pictures of the body made of braids, demonstrating how a kink in one deep spot shifts the entirity out of alignment, better explaining both my overall theory of the human condition and the pain I personally suffer from trying to "unbraid, then correctly braid" myself together again, I found myself thinking politics.  In truth, I'm thinking governement in general and how exasperated I am with my own country.  So, here . . . ]

I have a 6 year old daughter.  She's pretty much the reason I continue.  She is the back brace that stops so many, so many, last straws from breaking me completely.

And while my physical, mental, and emotional states limit me to being less than 10% the Dad I want to be, I have managed to plant a few seeds in that brain of hers.

*     *     *     *     *

Commercials are the bane of a parent's existence.

They fuel the need machine that is my child, as if the things she actually needed were not enough work, especially when just putting together a meal presents one with physical issues.

I have not cured my daughter of commercials, by any means.  She pulls every manipulative stop out after each new desire hits her.  [Though it would be much more fun to write them out, demonstrating both her brain power and the hell of being a parent, it would take too long to do justice, and it would send this entry into an entirely different direction.]  Yet, she does know that commercials are "trying to sell you something."

Sure, she does not totally understand this concept in terms of the inherent deceptions of marketing campaigns, but that seed exists.

*     *     *     *     *

There is one set of commercials in which I have trained an automatic response from her, which has become one of our games, one of my favorite games.

You have most likely seen them, a man sitting in front of a group of kids asks a question, they discuss, and eventually the screen solicits AT&T Wireless services.  There are a bunch, most are pretty funny.  I particularly love "Wait!  I'm watching this," while the man watches a boy do two things at the same time.

Each commercial of this set starts with the man asking a question.  My 6 year old refutes the answer given to this question.  It has become an automatic response.

She can be in the other room, practicing typing on some computer game (which blows my four-finger-one-thumb-typist mind) while I watch a sporting event on TV, when she'll hear, "What's better, bigger or smaller?"

Before the commercial even gets going from that point, she'll scream, "Bigger isn't always better!"

Then, we'll start giving examples: bigger owies, bigger car crashes, bigger messes, bigger servings of [insert food you don't like], etc.

This makes me happy.

*     *     *     *     *

What does not make me happy is that our government has become a giant commercial.  It exists, seemingly solely, to advance the profits of corporations.

While facially evil, Citizens United is only the tip of the iceberg.

Our politicians are the actors in the commercial, paid to play a part.  Granted, most do so unknowingly, just as you can get most any kid to smile and say they love McDonald's Happy Meals (at least I hope most do so unknowingly - a hope greatly hurt by the current lack of transparency in trading stocks off of governmental knowledge), but the results are the same.  Everything, EVERYTHING, is geared to perpetuate the stranglehold corporations have on this country.

Our democracy has become an illusion.  Our votes serve corporate interests, the only question really being which ones.

Just like a commercial, our government manipulates us into believing we want or need what those producing the commercial want us to buy.

*     *     *     *     *

I cry often.  It's no secret or surprise, given my pains, their duration and all.

Usually, I'll cry over something good happening, fictional or real, because I so long for something good to happen to me.

Two days ago, I watched Lincoln.  I wept, often.

This time, it was because I saw evidence of politicians actually trying to do what they objectively believed was right.  Back then, the corporate interest was slavery, and it took a war and politicians of integrity to beat those interests.

I simply cannot even imagine men being able to work within our government to do what is right today.  Even should a few somehow be elected, even should several get elected, even if they were men willing to "commit political suicide" by calling for the people of this country to stop buying the products and ideas this governmental commercial is selling, they could not possibly make any real changes, not in my lifetime, anyways.

What I am trying to do to myself is infinitely easier than the prospects of our government actually beginning to serve The People.

And so I wept.

*     *     *     *     *

Yet, maybe, we can plant some seeds.

[It's a departure, but I felt like venting.  I'm a bit bothered that I do not have the energy to go back for a proof read at present, so forgive first draft the errors that surely exist, please.]

4 Swims In-to Bed Head

[The following is by far the worst entry I have ever submitted.  I'm a mess, and so is this attempt.  So I'll let it ride, as an example, a warning, to all other idiots like myself that ever attempt to write something for people to read while a mess physically, mentally and emotionally.  If you, yourself, ever believe you may be suffering from physical, mental, and/or emotional incompetence, yet feel compelled to write something and post it on the web, remember what you are about to read, honestly, and think better of it, and walk away from the computer.  If just one reader manages to avoid a tragedy such as the prose that follows by following this advice, then I guess my shame and embarassment over the following is worth it.  Sigh.]

I got back in the pool last week, three times, and once so far this week (ungodly high winds today).

The song remains the same - extreme progress with rearranging shoulders, hips, with something "new" - core changes (since there is always something "new," it still remains the same, right?), subsequently followed by dizziness, then soreness, then a sleepless night.

I'm too tired of trying to explain the progress, but I'll note it is definitely including aspects of my core with the shoulder and hip changes.  This I do find promising.

The lack of sleep, however, is working me over something wicked.  I have no energy for optimism, though I suppose I am quite optimistic about the weeks to come.

*     *     *     *     *

I have a new metaphor (surprise!), another go, trying to express what I feel like at times.  And true to form per previous attempts, a more literal observation can be taken from the metaphor, I suppose.

The metaphor - unbraided hair.

Imagine, regardless of type, freshly brushed hair is how your body is supposed to be aligned.  Doesn't matter if it's straight or wavy for these purposes.  Just go with your own hair, but make it long if it happens to be short.

Braid it.  Leave it in the braid for a week.  Unbraid it.

So, my body, or portion thereof, feel like a bunch of unbraided hair for a few days after a successful adjustment.  Nothing lies next to each other.  Waves are pushing bends.  Hair goes in every direction.

The only possible comfort is to go back into the braid, but that can't happen anymore.  A genuine adjustment tends to be a one way ticket.  Some segment of me finds it's proper position.  It is not going back, at least not easily.  Yet, all parts connected to it, which had managed to function by creating a braid, are now unbraided.

Enter the opposite of comfort - discomfort, uncomfort, acomfort, anti-comfort.

*     *     *     *     *

So, the above, as I sat in front of this computer trying to work out the prose for this entry (which I gave up on and went free form - my apologies), made me realize what horrible bed head I have known every day of my life.

Well, not every day.  There are all the days, like the current ones, in which my head is shaved.

I don't have a good looking shaved head.  It is not horrible, either.  But this way I don't deal with bed head.

And I should also note that I have ridiculously fine hair, which does make for worse bed head.

*     *     *     *     *

Not anything profound, but the odds are, if your bed head is crazy-every-which-way bed head, as opposed to one-spot-pushed-funny bed head, you are out of alignment.  Granted, you are not likely perverted like my body is/was, but I'll bet you also have restless leg syndrome.

[I would hope anyone that has actually tried to read my rants and ravings can guess my position on "restless leg syndrome."  Yes, doctors labelled a phenomenon and throw a sedative at it when the person is really just out of alignment.  The body wants to be in alignment, and the legs are trying to do so while your conscious self is no longer running the program - very much as I believe is the case with R.E.M., the eyes unwinding the day's work - but that's a post for another day, one I probably will never write.]

*     *     *     *     *

A beyond poor entry, but I've had some issues.

I don't think I can articulate may way into expressing what I know to be true.  It just can't happen, unless read by someone with a similar situation.

What I feel happening to my body, I believe, is so outside normal sensory perception others experience, I can't possibly do it justice.

Consider acid.  If you ever took acid or mushrooms or some other hallucinogen, you can try to explain to someone that has not what it was like.  You could do an incredible job, such that that person might believe they know, they might even be able to parrot what you told them such that others believe they have done the drugs.  Yet, you know they don't have a clue. 

Not until they dose.

It's actually arguable that even those that have dropped acid don't really know what it is like when they are no longer under the influence, as seen by the "oh yeah, I remember this" moment an acid freak has the next time they drop.

Have I mentioned I attended UC Berkeley.

Anywho . . . my point.

*     *     *     *     *

It may well be that I am better off NOT trying to explain this, at least until some inspiration sets me back to prose, so much as to recommend what others should do.

And with that, here is my first bit of advice -

All children should be exposed to yoga and a form of dance which stresses posture.

Get them to activate all their muscles through yoga, as unbalance increases exponentially otherwise as they grow and live.  Then, get them to realize positions of proper posture, as these will give them moments when there body is most balanced, in effort.

If your not a child, odds are your fucked.

Not as bad as me, of course, but seeing that any well meant efforts could turn you into some fraction of me, I wouldn't recommend it.

This Is Heeling?

Not sure if I should laugh or cry.

I'll probably do a bit of both.

Probably more than a bit.

*     *     *     *     *

So, for the past two years, maybe more, I've had ankle fissures.  Last year they were pretty bad.

I'm not up for describing them in detail.  Plus, they are not exactly easy to inspect.  If you know them, you know they are painful.  Mine were predominantly former calluses that began to crack, in several places.  Many of the cracks were quite deep, nearly a quarter of an inch.

*     *     *     *     *

I had a "breakthrough" with my doctor last week.  He finally understood the sock metaphor I have used so often.  Written of previously, my adjustments sometimes feel like the moment you fix your sock.

You know the feeling.  You put on a sock, not realizing it is not on correctly.  The heel is to the side or on top, so you feel pressure in some spots of the foot and ankle, great slack in other spots.  It's just wrong.  When you shift the sock into place, it just feels right.  All those oddities, the tensions and slack, go away instantly.

It really is a great metaphor for what I go through, though I can't claim to ever get my body on right.   My muscle and skin is the sock that is out of place.  Once in a while, an adjustment puts something in a whole new place, for me, that just suddenly feels right.

[Something to think on - for nearly 30 years, I wore my socks wrong without knowing it.  Now, trying to slide them into the right place, I've got parts that are stretched out, parts that have shrunk, and I'm in terror over discovering possible holes.]

*     *     *     *     *

And so, this morning, in the shower, ankle fissures acting up even though I used some "heel balm" last night, I realized another almost-but-not-quite-irony.

Previously, the ankle fissures were behind my heels, most pointed straight behind me, varying by maybe up to 20 degrees or so.  Most are currently pointed diagonally, 45 degrees from the back.  [sigh]

They are not new.  No.

They moved.

*     *     *     *     *

I'm embarrassed that I never put it together before.  I presumed all the jogging had brought them about.  Pretty dumb, when you think about it, as I no longer land on my heels.

Nope.  It's just the meat-sock that was has been adjusting.  The calluses that were once protecting an impact point have slid to the side, dried out, and cracked.

On the bright side, they don't hurt that much and have been annoying the hell out of me the past day.  That means every place else must not be hurting that badly, or I wouldn't be noticing the fissures.

*     *     *     *     *

Mentally, I've had just about enough.  The pain and mental exhaustion is bad enough.  Realizing cruel and painful ironies pushes me towards a psychotic break.

I've coined the phrase "Death by paper cuts" to express slow exquisite torture.  These not-quite-ironies are like, well, the torturer takes a break from slicing me with paper to water board me with lemon juice.

Maniacal Laughter

I'm getting closer.

Interspersed between periods of extreme discomfort, I am having moments, just a few, of almost-wholeness.

I am not whole, not yet, not even all that close to completely whole, which, in truth, I doubt will ever happen.

Yet, in these moments, where the creases are pushed to the top, above my chest, above my shoulders, stacked atop my torso, where their compliments are allowed to drop past my hips below my core, my torso feels like one piece.

And I know what it is to not feel segmented.

I know what whole must feel like.

And I laugh like a fucking maniac.

I may actually do this.