monologue

“So this normalization-- it’s a defense mechanism. You’re forced to normalize it; otherwise, every time it recurs, it’s like the raw shock and pain of the first assault. So you normalize it. Somehow you’re able to dial down the volume of it all. And after a while, it becomes just another experience, another piece of your life, mixed in with all the other pieces. There are good pieces. You really can’t remember those, though. The bad stuff pervades. It hovers. It clings to you. The happiness burns bright, for sure. But the darkness burns brighter. And longer. And so, years later, decades later, you look back at the abuse and think of it as-- yes, it was painful, but it’s simply something that happened. You really think: it’s just something that happened. You believe that your childhood experiences, the trauma-- you think that’s the rule and not the exception. But you’re wrong. You assume most everyone has a troubled childhood. You believe most everyone grows up in a dysfunctional home. But no. See, you’ve normalized it. It’s become internalized until one day you realize-- and begin to accept!-- your childhood was traumatic. Your experiences were terrible. Actual terror. And they altered the course of your life before you got the choice to choose otherwise. And those experiences, they’re still with you today. Only now you understand they manifest as the Anger (and its quickness!). The Anxiety. The obsessive traits. That pervasive feeling of brokenness. You now understand that your amygdala-- your amygdala has no chill! Those experiences altered its ability to appropriately assess the sensory input. You’ve got hair-trigger fight or flight. Everyone is a potential threat, so trust no one. What are their intentions? It’s best to just keep everyone away. Allow no one to come inside your mangled garden. Good news. There’s good news? Yes, you are in therapy and are thereby-- you’re beginning to understand yourself more thoroughly. You’re identifying the trauma. And accepting it. And in a perverse sense, you see A.’s situation and all its tragedy as an opportunity. A chance to start a new chapter with something with which you’ve never been familiar: optimism.”

“I’m falling apart so I can be rebuilt stronger and better.”

Return

When I started this space over two years ago I had no idea what the near future would hold for me and my wife A. Yes none of us truly know what the future holds, but one can never prepare themself for the sudden shock of a cancer diagnosis, especially when it’s a brain malignancy.

On December 10, 2021, my partner for ten years, A., and a day before her 36th birthday, was diagnosed with an extremely rare and aggressive brain cancer. She likely has a year, at most, until it overcomes her. She’s lost vision in her left eye and the right eye is impaired but not, as yet, to a significant degree. She’s currently undergoing proton radiation and chemotherapy. The primary limiting factor for her at this time is fatigue, which is expected given her therapies. She’s relatively pain free and still independent with all activity.

Throughout our many years together A. has rarely allowed herself to express any kind of vulnerability. Lately, however, this curtain has been wearing thin and starting to tear.

Yesterday in the late afternoon and in our living room, we hugged. Standing there, the two of us, she started to cry. “Thank you for the happiest decade of my life... I’m not sure how much time we have left.”

…

A. has been my partner for ten years. She’s my confidante. My wife. The love of my life. And my best friend. She’s practically my everything (given my social circle is nearly nonexistent). And I will be utterly lost without her.

The size of my pain is too immense to calculate. To witness your spouse slowly fade from life… to see joy vanish… it takes your breath away. At the end of day, when I’m wide awake in bed and as she sleeps, my heart aches. Literally. Your brain struggles to understand, which initiates a cardiac response from the dump of stress hormones, and your heart struggles to keep up. The pounding. With arms extended you see your hands bump bump bump bump with each beat. Heart strain, when prolonged, can lead to acute coronary syndrome, atrial fibrillation, and heart failure.

…

I actually started this space over two years ago but didn’t publish it (and didn’t contribute to it for the last year and a half) until yesterday. I feel like publishing it will incentivize me to write, as well as rediscover my camera (my photographic pursuits have decreased significantly since the pandemic began). I’m hopeful these artistic expressions will prove therapeutic once again.

For those who dare, my previous blog is xxxxxxxxxxx. I wrote it from 2005-2011 and, from what I remember of it, was frequently a dark and, at times, disturbing space. I was dealing with some real mental health issues at the time. And at some point over the last year? two years? those issues, or maybe the same forces that drove those earlier issues, resurfaced. For the first time in my life I began seeing a mental health professional in October 2021, and I regret not seeing one sooner.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to articulate is that A.’s diagnosis and all its ramifications have tested my mental health like nothing previous. My old blog was an outlet, a creative outlet that allowed me to cope, or at least attempt to cope, with my sister’s addictions, mom’s alcoholism, and my own faulty wiring (and so much more!). Many of those dark urges are back and pose a much greater threat now then they did then. So I’m back on the interwebs with a new blog. We’ll see how it goes.

mc