I have been sort of rushing by the place on the list of places I visit frequently that is this place.
Too much has happened of things I too painful/difficult to talk about/dwell on to be able to figure out how to write to you about it.
So, I plan to draw a veil and do some general arm waving towards the doings of the last couple of months and move on. Perhaps details will seep in over time. But that is my way.
In general arm waving: Most all who have been hurt badly are better. My uncle died from his injuries, and I will go to my uncle's funeral/celebration of life in October. It will be good to see my family there.
We are fine. The economy has impacted our art business, but we are doing okay.
The interesting thing to me is how I have had a decent this summer back into the symptoms of the traumatic brain injury I suffered in 2003. I have been mostly better, with the understanding that there have been losses and I am not the same person I was. But was getting at least more used to contours of the inside of my head, if not more comfortable within them. Most of the people who know me now, have only known this me. And the few people who knew me before are mostly very kind. The only way is to go on about the business of drawing the next breath.
But too many phone calls that start with the shaky breath of a person trying to steel themselves to say the unsay-able have come to me this summer.
For a long time when the phone rang it was the signal for my heart to pound and sweat to pour down my backbone. Dreadful images roared through my head, each worse than the last. I would pounce of the phone to keep it from ringing any more, but terror at what would be said would catch my breath in my throat. Bad enough that it was making me unable to manage. I got counseling and learned to tell myself "it is unlikely that this is bad news." That actually worked pretty well for a while.
The problem is that unlikely though it may be, it has still happened.
And that breaks the fragile truce I had worked out with all the other dysfunctions that have been created/exaggerated by the head injury.
Feral barnyard cats of memory loss, depression, and exhaustion wind around my shins feeding on the scraps of my life as I drop them, off balanced.
I hope that this time will be short and there are some indications that it may be. I hope that this is a healing crisis as the final stages of getting better.
But that is why I haven't written to you this summer. I am toying with the idea of choosing a day that I come and blog so that I have a goal. But I haven't gotten there yet.