When I Get Quiet
Writing Through Disassociation
It’s 2:22 pm.
Now it’s 2:29.
When I get quiet, it’s because I’m absolutely overwhelmed. The problems are so complex and I am untwisting them at a slower and slower pace.
The past week has been very challenging. For all of us, I suspect.
We crave relief, mercy, some kind of break in the white-knuckle ride. But suddenly, we are without the benevolent mother spirit. We have to “be that for ourselves.”
I’m trying to focus on finding my boots and putting them on, driving to the health food store, and buying castor oil and turmeric.
My younger cat Lewis was diagnosed with cancer 2 days ago and this coincided with a spiritual attack from a dark part of Scientifica Luciferica. (Made up term for those who worship their own sense of “the science” enough to routinely seek human soul sacrifices.)
It’s impossible to know what another person is going through. We get only a few pixels.
Researching cancer remedies for cats, I find that everything I already know is poured out of my mind. I pray but can’t hear God’s voice. It feels like loss of faith but it isn’t. It’s depletion. Must find the anchor within.
Today: Lewis’ tumor has changed and is protruding something, and bleeding. I can’t think straight. Could that be because I’ve been spraying it with colloidal silver, hence the tumor is collapsing and pushing itself out? (Thinking hopefully.)
We know things for a time and then we don’t know them anymore. Fear drives out memory. What am I afraid of?
He’s scheduled for surgery Monday morning.
God is very familiar with my Lewis prayers and has always answered them. Every time Lewis was missing, lost, or got into a scrape one way or another, God heard my Lewis Prayer. It is only now that it is occurring to me that I placed too much pressure on him, to hold me together, all these years. I know he’s a cat.
What are we supposed to do in a world like this?
Lewis and I both got hit hard by EMF in the last place we lived. Actually, no, it was four places ago; It was in Sharon, CT, possibly the most love-deprived place in all of America, or maybe the second-most.
“It’s very beautiful.” (That’s what people say about Sharon.)
People also say that our animals take on our cancers for us. I hope Lewis isn’t carrying my cancer.
No weapon formed against Lewis shall prosper.
There was ill will at that place, in Sharon. I made the mistake of trying to transform it.
Dr. Brooks says I must take my lyme diagnosis seriously, but I tell him I take my gut health seriously, and can’t shatter it with 6 months of antibiotics.
Back on the Orthodox Train, (briefly) I call the recommended doctor.
I’m told he charges $1300 just for the first tele-medicine appointment. I think it was $1100 for the second one. Then it drops down to $900.
I’m not going to sell my car to pay for a crashed gut. So I get off the train. This is about how long I usually last on Orthodox Medicine Train.
Tom Cowan told me never to say the words “Lyme disease” again.
I did that and I do believe it worked.
But when Dr. Brooks looked at me, shaking his head, and said: “De-realization, anhedonia, dis-association, memory loss…it’s classic lyme,” I believed it again, and it was more present, again. “You must have a hard time finding words,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” I said, wracked with shame. I wish I had added: “I like people who can’t find words.”
I can’t find anything else either.
I’m back to taking ice baths. I did 3 solid minutes this morning, and did the Wim Hof 11 minute breathing exercises.
And writing this helped ground me from free-floating anxiety.
Now I can find my boots, go to the store, get castor oil and turmeric (I have probably 5 bottles of it but don’t know where so I’ll get one more.)
I will make a poultice and sit with Lewis and the poultice. We’re together now.
“We ourselves shall be loved for awhile and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”
—Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey