The Return To Innocence

Why is it that, in most dreams where I am in physical danger, I am unable to scream or move quickly?
My last dream involved a bad fall and crash at the top of the stairs, while a large group of people were downstairs having a small quiet party. Something supernatural was with me, something insidious. I grabbed the stair ledge and pulled myself up to a kneeling position. I yelled my husband's name, but it was only a whisper. I couldn't call for help, not with the shadowy creature surrounding me. I was moving so slowly. It felt as though nobody was in the house but me, me and the cats.
And abruptly, I realized that nobody was in the house. Adam was at work. There was no party. The cats were all downstairs. It was only me and the shadow entity. I struggled to call on my internal resources, my spirit guardians, but even my psychic voice was muffled. I was not afraid. I was determined. I was badly injured, and I only had myself, and my powers to create weapons and defenses were drained. I stopped trying to stand. I knelt there and mouthed words, calling on the water in the bathroom, the air circulating around the house, the earth under the house, the fire downstairs used to light the gas stove. I pulled in all into me, and with a desperate burst, I unleashed it. The shadow creature shrieked and vanished.
Without any warning at all, the house filled with presence again. There was that quiet downstairs party. I whispered my husband's name again, struggling to turn it into a cry. Someone must have heard. Adam came up the stairs and found me, sagging against the door of the bathroom, my nose bleeding. He spoke to me. He half-carried me to the bedroom and helped me lie down. He brought damp towels and tissues and water with electrolytes. I managed, somehow, to tell him that a negative spirit had entered the house and stole my strength, and I pulled all the elemental power I could to drive it away. He was very proud but also puzzled, since the house was supposed to be powerfully shielded and guarded. I was crying but I didn't mean to cry. It was just a reaction without intention. He stroked my hair and curled up with me, and me took my hand and fed me energy and power and strength, and he said, "Go to sleep, my darling. I'll be monitoring you through our psychic bond and everything will be okay. I will strengthen the wards." He needed to check on our friends. He would back be up soon.
The dream ended there.

It has been something of a recurring thing: My slowness in dreams. My exquisite agony in dreams. My whispering words in dreams. Sometimes I can barely walk for the pain in my hips and knees. Sometimes I can only speak with thoughts instead of physical words. Sometimes my body is wrapped in a floating translucent shell and it is the only way I can move. In my dreams, the pain is so much worse than in reality. But I have access to weapons of all kind and I feel safe, even if something horrible grabs me.

When I was a child, I had flying dreams every night. Even astral projection. Like my father and cousins in their younger years. And if a harmful person appeared, I just waved my right hand fiercely, shouting "Shoo! Shoo!" to make then disappear.

When I was a child, I dreamed of dragons, of ancient tortoises, of unicorns mixed with white tigers, of phoenix birds with feathers of every color. Dragons have never been dangerous to me. Even if some were, there were always other dragons who were benevolent.

It is why I always bristle when I read an article comparing chronic pain to dragons. The only way I can see such battles happening is dragon against dragon. And I am a human amalgam of dragon, phoenix, tortoise, unicorn, white tiger, and fae, wrapped in the skin of a moonlight witch.

Then, why do my dreams cripple me? The only reason I can think of is to teach me to use the insides, the powers coming from my spirit and not my body. My body is very important and vital to me. But perhaps not so much in my dreams.

And I think this piece of art, beyond anything, is one of the greatest ways I can understand myself. Every time I look at it, I weep. I even have that same cane. I know Shinga and I barely know each other, but she knows chronic pain. She knows what being a warrior means. She was in the US Army and was badly injured and treated so poorly during therapy that she has severe PTSD. She is disabled badly. She knows battles. And I want to hold her and hold her and tell her what this means to me.

http://shinga.deviantart.com/art/Awaken-Warrior-and-Rise-378439320

(Note: Please please refer to Shinga before borrowing or using this image. Please use the Deviant Art link. This is her work. Copyright Shinga. The only reason I displayed the actual image was in case someone can't click on the link.)

Sigh.
So, that was either a very weird complex partial seizure or a rare psychic experience. Or both. Regardless, I'm off to take some medicine and rest my brain. I think I used too many spears.

I do not remember much. What little I can recall involved synesthesia turned up to eleven when I closed my eyes, hyperactive shapes and sounds rushing into my brain, and a deep sense of expansion far beyond anything I could describe - like being in a craft flying toward outer space itself; a sense of G-forces pressing me down until I spiraled into darkness and then saw nothing but brilliant dots of light and sensed nothing but trillions of unexplainable entities, everywhere, all at once. There was so much heat and cold simultaneously, blackness and ice and fire without air, crushing me into a bare essence of a sentient being. It was as though I were coming apart atom by atom. I was screaming without sound. When it stopped, I couldn't hear, see, feel, or speak for a minute or two. When I managed to open my eyes, I was lying twisted against the back of the couch, gasping heavily, sweat pouring down my face. I truly do not know what happened. I am struggling to hold on to even a tiny bit of that memory, but it is fading even as I write this. I'm sorry.

The transcript for the Futurama episode "Godfellas."
Bender's conversation with the God Galaxy is the main reason why this is one of my favorite episodes. It is also part of why, ten years ago, I declared myself a pantheistic polytheistic polyagnostic eclectic pagan witch who observes humanistic paganism and spiritual humanism. It is also part of why I am convinced that magic and physics go together like limes and coconuts.
http://www.futurama-madhouse.net/scripts/3acv20.shtml

FYI, this particular postictal state (after seizure state) has me somewhat energetic and verbose as well as mildly hypergraphic, despite the migraine and burning muscles and spastic limbs and aching nerves. I am going to try and direct that energy into writing chapters and stories now. Questions are welcome.

I also wanted to add a photo. I have gotten into a habit of photographing my face after certain seizures, to document the physical aftereffects even if I am the only one who sees them. I have a few friends in the medical industry who might understand why I do this. One such friend mentioned that in this picture, my usual spastic imbalance due to cerebral palsy is not there, meaning that the seizure wore me out so badly that my facial muscles went fully lax and exhausted, with no spastic hemiplegia on the left side. My normal is gone right now, turned into everyone else's normal. It does make me sad, because now I don't look like myself; I look alien. My face doesn't look imbalanced or shifted or compensated. That seizure obviously took it out of me, because I am also fatigued and lethargic beyond description.
But this is very good to know, so I can keep an eye out for future seizure effects.

A question asked by chiyo_no_saru:
Who were you in high school? How's that different from who you are now?

I was Shy Girl. I was Quiet Girl. I was Tiny Girl. I was Geek Girl. I was Book Girl. I was Writer Girl. I was the girl who worked the hardest but wasn't popular, except when it came to my writing powers. I was the shortest, skinniest girl in my class of forty-seven kids, in a school of maybe six hundred -- and that included the middle school. My hair was wild and down to my waist. I hated jeans, and wore slacks or leggings. I hid behind long baggy tee shirts of dark, earthy colors, and my hair. I wore flat boots because I was scared of wearing heels; I wore lifts and orthotics, and walked with a noticable limp. I didn't have acne. I kept my head down. I always carried around a paperback fiction book.
I was constantly teased, mocked, ridiculed -- unless it was about my writing. Everyone loved my writing. I submitted stories and poems to the school magazine every year. I was the spelling bee champion for my class, despite the fact that my class never won first place because I always choked on that last word. I was the best in the school in language, grammar, vocabulary, spelling, reading, writing. My math grades were atrocious; I had severe dyscalculia, and they passed me out of pity and the realization that my language, writing and reading skills were so genius and extraordinary that they couldn't hold me back.
In gym class, I couldn't play sports and the teachers understood my cerebral palsy, so every gym class I went down to the weight room, unless it was something I could play, like badminton or floor exercises. My only health concerns were cerebral palsy and sciatica. Physical therapy every week. I was the only disabled student in the school.
I was a loner. I didn't trust the popular kids not to make fun of me. My only real friend in school was the class misfit, Cindy, who had a violent temper. She and I had almost nothing in common except for our love of making up stories. We loved TMNT and X-Men and Mighty Ducks, and we wrote fanfiction before it was called fanfiction. She was very religious, first Catholic then born-again Christian, while I was agnostic bordering on pagan. I think we became friends because she made me laugh and I helped her be more creative.
Throughout it all, I had my true best friend, David Damar Diamond, who went to a different school. From the ages of 13 to 17, we where there for each other. We were each other's first tentative almost-lovers. When I had nobody else, I had Damar. He's been dead for eight years now, but I still have him, you know?
Eventually, in senior year, I opened up more. I did become friends with some of the other girls. Particularly Erin, who was friendly with everyone. But then graduation came, and we all went our separate ways. I still miss the guidance counselor, Art Cleveland. He died recently. He was wonderful and hysterical.
I went on to SUNY Purchase -- and it was like stepping out into sunlight after a lifetime in a cave. It was so overwhelming and amazing. The first boy I made friends with, Stuart, became my boyfriend for a month or two, then back to my friend. The first girl I became friends with, Corinne, stayed my friend until graduation. And through her I met all those other friends.
And through one of those friends, I met the man who would be my husband.
It took me so many years to break down all those walls, those glass walls, to tell myself it was okay to let people in, to let people love me. The withdrawn, insecure child blossoming into the woman she needed to be who almost wasn't.

And even now, ten years after I first stepped onto that college campus, I think, "Oh my gods, all these friends. All these people want to be my friends. All these people -- they love me. Love me. They don't care that I'm weird. They're even weirder. They understand. They know me."
All you people, all you friends, my gods, you are extraordinary, you have no idea what you mean to me. I've never known anyone weirder, more wonderful, more beautiful, more brilliant. I love you, my friends.

Flare in the shape of Fire. I expected this.
The fatigue is like the most violent of storms, and I can barely function without coffee, spirulina, CoQ10 and ashwagandha to fuel the adrenal glands. My body desires collapse. My mind is completely fogged.
I suppose catharsis and a two-hour emotional release will do that. I won't think about it now, I'm done for now. I'm happy and relieved and I can focus on making myself whole and improved.
It is Friday. I have a long three day weekend ahead. I can rest.

Silly girl, I say, you are not a stupid girl. It's okay. These things happen. But you shouldn't have shut it all away, shouldn't have made yourself forget. Just because it wasn't a horrible trauma like the traumas of half your friends back then didn't mean it was pointless and stupid and forgettable. You were innocent and naive and fresh-faced and childlike, and they loved you for that, and just because you hadn't lived the trauma and pain they had didn't mean you didn't have your own. So it wasn't terrible. It was still extremely upsetting and traumatizing. You should have told someone. They could have kicked his ass. They loved you. They protected you. You were the face of their lost innocence. And all those years, you could have been someone more. You could have been open. You didn't have to hide. You didn't have to feel ashamed and undeserving and afraid. You could have let yourself live.
So live now. They're waiting for you. Your love is waiting. Your love is here and he wants you.
Be everything.

(There are times when I don't think I should post any catharsis to LJ, but then I say fuck it all, if people want to read and speculate, let them. This is what journals are for, and it is my choice to make them public. It's not like I am giving details, nor will I be giving details. This is just for my own record, to look back on and learn from.)

Cats really are the best at soothing the mind. They jump onto the bed and curl up behind your knees or against your shin or thigh and they lick you and purr, and everything is all right. Because you have a kitty.

Kitty. Hee.

I just got an email from my first college boyfriend.
Big surprised smile.

Stuart and I dated for a few weeks, and then gradually settled back into friendship. We met on pretty much the first day of school. I was in the Humanities building, at a vending machine, somewhat despairing over the fact that my dollar bill was too old and wrinkled and the machine refused to take it. I heard a guy's voice, and looked up to my right to see him grinning. Slender frame, around five-nine, pale gray eyes, shoulder-length black hair. He helped me get my iced tea, we started talking, and before I knew it I had made my first friend at SUNY Purchase. Gradually, an attraction built up and we started dating. We dated like a couple of eighteen-year-olds fresh into the college life and still uncertain of everything, but it was a good, good time. He was hysterically funny. He made me laugh all the time. And he was a fantastic kisser.
After we decided to cool things off, we remained friends, and then gradually went our separate ways. More friends, more experiences, more memories, and then graduation (with James Earl Jones, thank you very much); and now it's ten years later and I still remember that day in front of the vending machine, and that first kiss in front of one of the buildings, and the lunch dates in the local mall, and discussing science fiction books and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Weird Al Yankovic.

So, Stu, if you read this, hi. I hope your life continues to be good and happy, and I want to be updated when you and your girl get engaged. And I want photos.

Remember the episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, "Becoming, Part Two" where Buffy is forced to kill Angel? The song that plays throughout it is "Close Your Eyes" by Christophe Beck, written as the Buffy/Angel love theme. Sarah McLachlan's "Full Of Grace" played afterwards.
When I woke up from the dream last night, my heart was heavy, and those two songs were playing in my head, intertwined like ribbons. Swelling. Swollen.
Damar and I had been sitting on his couch, in each other's arms, watching that episode, which had not even been conceived of back then, we'd never even heard of Joss Whedon. I was trying not to cry. Damar thought I was cute and sweet for being so emotional. I tilted my head up and kissed him, and he grabbed me and we kissed like that very first kiss, and I could smell him. I said, "I missed you. It's been a long, long time." He said, "One day we'll go ghost-hunting like we said we would." I started to lay down against him again, and suddenly the world pulled away, like a train moving too fast, speeding, pulling me backwards, and I lost contact, I couldn't feel him. The world was chilly. I screamed his name. I fell backwards. I woke up.
I thought, Oh, I have to call Damar and tell him about it. He'd find it amusing. And I almost got out of bed and almost reached for the phone. And then my brain came alive, and whispered to me, and spilled ice down my psychic spine. Oh. Yeah. Right. He's not going to answer the phone. He never will. He hasn't answered the phone for seven years.
Damar is dead.
I thought, Oh gods I really want to talk to Damar right now. I want to see him so badly. It's ripping me down the middle.
Damar is dead.
I touched my heart. It was pounding.
I lay back down and breathed hard and swallowed, and I rolled over and found Adam's bare back toward me. I touched him between his shoulder blades and he sighed that happy little sigh that said, That is my wife's hand touching me. I love my wife. Keep doing that, please, my wife. And I stroked his warm back for a few minutes, and I fell back asleep.
Damar, I'm sorry.
I never said goodbye.
I never even knew.
But at least you were happy.
I love you, you know. I never stopped. I can't stop.
I wish you were here.

(This is for everyone who has lost a love. Which is, basically, everyone.
Come share with me.)