Sleep will not overtake me tonight, as much as I desire it. It is an illusive dream, a fantasy that is just out of reach. Perhaps it is the drugs keeping me a wake, but more likely it is my mind, on it's never ending track through my brain trying to decipher the questions of how and why and if. Tonight it rests squarely on the ideas of the "blackouts" or the times when my body seems to maintain conscious thought while temporarily disconnecting all voluntary control. I am terrified to tell anyone. Afraid that they are not real, that there is no medical purpose. I seem convinced that all the medical tests in the world would find no reasoning, leaving me drained and exhausted and humiliated. Why would I seem so convinced that there is no medical reason? Is it perhaps that it is all an illusion, not in a conscious sense but more of my psyche crying out that I am in need of medical attention. "If you give in they will find you, they will help you," Is that what it meant? Is it I, in some higher form creating the necessity to seek medical attention for things I would not, myself, notice, for things that are generally undetectable? And if it is than all of this is really in my head, and in an odd cosmic way they would have been telling me the truth all along. “It’s all in your head, you are making it up for attention.”
Only the type of attention indicated is not at all the type I may be trying to achieve. Years before GPS over took my body, nearly shutting the system down permanently, I cried out like this. I knew there was something wrong, I could feel it in my body mind and energy. I tried to warn me. I tried to help me seek the attention needed. But I gave in willingly to it then.
Now I can not seem to give in willingly, emotionally battered from the time before. I know they are there. I know they speak loudly to my soul, and I can not bare to make it conscious. I will not give in willingly and it will not allow me to push it off, to ignore it. Am I that in need of its voice, of its warning, of its desperate attempts to bring me into the hands of those who may be able to help?
Is that why it starts slow and becomes more frequent? Is that why I can feel it wanting to take me over in places where it can not and will not be overlooked. Is that why it calls at work, at the park, during the carnival? Is it that keenly aware that if not seen I will not tell? Is that why there must be bruises and marks?
As a continual reminder that it will be seen, that someone will question and the truth will come out? Or if not the truth at least the reason will be detected and treated. After all isn’t that why it is here?
Friday, July 12, 2002