This is about and from some random stuff we know and/or has/had happened in the past few days/week or so. (Our life is much ‘busier’ and has a LOT more happening in it than we have in these posts of ours.)
1) Our wife came home yesterday bearing a big black binder. On the spine was the title “Puerto Rico Nightmare” – from the trip we had made and come back from, and covering some of the ‘stuff’ which happened both over there (I assume) and (definitely) some when we came back here (meaning being 1013’d and ‘stuff’). I didn’t look through it; I don’t pry through her things (she is a very private woman in some respects; something she semi-reluctantly admits – even to me much of her ‘personal’ life and thoughts are hidden). But I laughed and commented that she had ‘written a book’ (though perhaps it is all just copies of records and things). And she said she had . . . that this ‘thing’ still troubles her, and then she asked (when I asked what troubles her):
“What made you change?”
And we got to discussing this thing – it baffles her (and even me some of the times) how rapid the changes came about. How “I” changed on the inside . . . but when I tried to get her to define the ‘change’ – she didn’t. I don’t know if she wouldn’t – or couldn’t.
“Some things,” I tried to explain, “Are simply beyond words. It’s like the word ‘grass’. The word doesn’t tell you anything about grass – it doesn’t tell you the smell, the texture, the feel. If you didn’t know what ‘grass’ was it wouldn’t mean a thing. It’s kinda like that. Words pale in comparison to the real thing – what happened to me.”
Pressing on, I added, “In a way you could say I found my own sort of religion – one that agrees with everything. All the religions in the world. And all my science, too – because you know I have a strong ‘science’ side (actually there are several). It had to make sense for me to accept it.”
“I don’t buy it,” she said.
“Well,” I said, looking down at the deck (we were outside). I had a flyswatter in my hand and I thumped it down on the wood. “Can you believe that maybe god did just that? Thumped me upside the head with a heavenly flyswatter?? I mean . . . I knew what it felt like to be ‘a god’ – I ‘knew’ infinity. I had to ‘lose’ everything I was – even the concept of ‘me’ in some ways – everything; every word, every bit of knowledge – and then I was ‘There’. Can you buy that? I know – crazy as it sounds: could you buy it?”
“No,” she said, grimly smiling. “I can’t. I just want to know what happened; what brought this on.”
“Is it all a bad thing?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “It’s been wonderful since you got back . . . both good and bad. What they did to you . . .” She trailed off; both her and I knowing the effect that 1013 did have: mistrust in the medical establishment, in the law; the realization that ‘they’ can just come lock you away – no word, no procedures needing followed; you are deemed ‘guilty’ until you can prove you are ‘no harm’ to anybody including yourself – and yet . . .
“That was wrong,” she said. “They shouldn’t have locked you up.”
“I know!”, I said. I gestured towards the records. “No where in there does it say I was threatening ‘harm’ towards anyone! Not even myself. Over and over again it says the same thing! And yet . . .”
“SHE did this thing,” my wife harshly whispered, then said, “Charlotte did it. That bitch. She lied in order to get you locked up . . .”
Which is probably true. She – or someone with a feminine voice – called the cops and the hospital representing themselves as my wife – but it wasn’t my wife. And it was the day after I’d seen the doctor’s wife. Who wanted me committed for ‘observation’ (because she couldn’t believe the story about my little ‘adventure’ – because yes, it does sound insane) . . .
She – and the cops – managed to break my wife’s trust in a lot of things. But not me, apparently. That still holds, I reckon, stronger than ever – maybe. I don’t know.
The other day my wife awoke me – without meaning to – as she was going to work, and I asked why she didn’t lean down and kiss me goodbye.
“I was afraid of getting hit.” she said. “I didn’t want to wake you and get smacked!”
“You know I would never hurt you,” I said (this is a pact I made with my selves a long, long time ago, “Not on purpose!”
“That’s just the thing,” she laughed. “I know you wouldn’t (hurt me on purpose). But . . .”
Well, we both knew: this was a hangover from my old days. You gotta be careful when you wake me up if I am sleeping sound. Fortunately I’m not a very sound sleeper. But when I awake, I wake almost completely aware (not all my ‘selves’ get up at the same time). I’ve never hit someone while waking – but I could. If my startle response was good. (Or bad, depending upon how you look at it.) That’s one of the things: I attack when attacked and I don’t waste time at all. An instantaneous response; uninhibited, uncontrolled. It’s one of the things I learned while in the military – attack when attacked, don’t lay down – go after them as soon as you know. Predators expect a victim’s response – when you don’t give them one – when you give them one of overwhelming violence, attacking instead – well, I haven’t lost one yet. (fight, that is.) Not of those kind. (so long, Marine Corps, wishing you some good . . .)
But (sighing) . . . it’s hard when you see the fear in their eyes – your loved ones. Not ‘knowing’ what’s going on and wondering if they are really treasured and safe from you . . .
And yet ‘we’ know we are ‘all okay’ and ‘all on-board’ with this sort of thing: trying to do good, be kind to people (even if we hate them some of the times – thank you MCG, cops, the medical establishment, for interrupting what was going to be a wonderful process in time) . . . It’s funny how quickly we can defuse all these sort of things (hatred, anger) now just by re-realizing some things; some of the conclusions and realizations we came to while we were ‘overseas’.
It’s hard to be happy when you see so many people confused about who you ‘are’; ‘how’ you are . . . but that’s one of the things that changed in the souls of me . . .
way down below the tank, below the ‘hood’ . . . there is bright fire from what we remember, and believe what you will, but something happened, and it was something ‘good’ and it cured a lot of ‘things’ in me . . . unable to explain the process or the progress … confusing, yes, but okay with that.
I will TRY to get the wife to write something (another issue) – while we try to get some other writing done FOR her (a lot of my stories from “The Little Shop of Horrors” have been sent to her) . . . and see if we can define this ‘change’ – what she sees.
After all: inquiring minds wanna know. Including my own.