Dissociation, anger, and displacement

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Face Faces Dialogue, by Geralt Altmann, via pixabay

I tried not to let it bother me. But it did. What my life would’ve could’ve should’ve been like if I didn’t have secondary progressive multiple sclerosis (SPMS). If the disease hadn’t brought out the worst in me. If I didn’t feel like my life was short-circuited. If multiple sclerosis didn’t render me a quadriplegic. If it hadn’t made me so angry. My life might’ve turned out differently.

The professional me was over and done with before I was 40. I had spent most of my 30s battling SPMS. The relapse remitting multiple sclerosis (RRMS) of my late teens and…

A One-Year-Memorial

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Dora, by Christine Garcia

I ended my best friend’s life one year ago, October 21, 2019. She was my partner. My companion. My confidant. She died in my arms with my face next to hers. I kept whispering to her: everything will be okay, she could rest, no more pain and suffering. I loved her more than words. I could never repay the debt I owed her for everything she had done for me. She helped keep me going when I no longer wanted to.

Her name was Dora. She was a corgi-chihuahua mix with Dumbo-like ears. She was the scourge of the insect…

When everything gets quiet

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Man Sitting on Wheelchair, by Alexandre Saraiva, via Pexels

Loneliness feels scary.

When the feeling activates, I panic. My hair stands on end. I feel jolts of adrenaline and my heart races. Everything gets quiet, a silent roar in my ear. There’s nobody around, and I‘m forgotten. It’s suffocating. Deafening. Nobody hears the screaming in my head. But I do. I’m like a prisoner, trapped in my head, banging futility against my skull to get out. I can’t. It’s just me, locked in a paralyzed body that spends countless bedridden hours alone.

Multiple sclerosis created lesions in my spine that rendered me a quadriplegic. I continue to worsen. There’s…

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Dad on 70th birthday, by Mom

Surreptitiously, it creeps up on me: Dad is dead, killed by COVID-19.

I feel an immediate panic.

My chest tightens, and I feel a sinking in my stomach, like I’m in sudden free-fall.

Feeling as if there’s no ground to support me, my organs feel like they’re floating. The acrid taste of bile fills my mouth. A sharp nausea follows. My eyes water.

The brief episode dissipates. But it will reappear, again and again, always without warning, always the same.

He started coughing, a horrible racking cough that only stopped long enough to start again.

“Dad, I think you better…

Aaron Freedman

I meditate. I think. I sometimes write.

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