OVERCONFIDENCE!

I am responsible…
All accidents feel very stupid: if only I had done this, gone another way, etc…

In my case, I was possibly too joyous – something was excessive – I decided to take a speed bump without slowing down, why not? This was a glorious day… (cf. Fall Season post).

The key issue here is that I am responsible for being at the bottom of this hole – how it feels (bad and depressing, if I am using words – not a necessity at all!) – and I am responsible for getting out.

I will be “there” for quite some time.

Fortunately, I listen to myself (as that other dumb cliché says!): sleep a lot, walk outdoors every day, and eat and drink (water) so as to regain the great weight I have lost.
Even though I write all of this down, there is absolutely nothing to say!
BUT I remember Jean Améry (Hans Meyer) pondering what the intellect(ual) can bring to torture (cf. At the Mind’s Limits).
Keep writing, and maybe like in a good conversation, you will discover something you  had no idea…

I remain in silence as long as possible. Silence has a great many layers…
[I dread noise – why do planes fly at 10:30 p.m. and 5:30 a.m.?]

I want “reality:” words that don’t feel like they come out of some ready-made wishes, and clichés.
Music that is sparse and knows its limits… but what is reality, that elusive concept (cf. my School of No Media)?

The new stats I am watching…

Almost three weeks later, I am home!
Being home, means one’s effort to be can BE that much more REAL than in a setting where’s one future is totally dependent on a bunch of strangers, who all play their part. “Public self” has a great many limitations.

Facial hair, because for quite some time, there were other concerns.

The good
– I get my dreams back (I had not realized I had not dreamed in the hospital). It is like a friendly blanket, another “me” meeting me, regardless of the dreams. Officially I am told: REM sleep is back.
– I am like a sponge with silence: give me more!
– I sleep a lot, more than eight hours per night.
The hard
– My previous brain-bleed (cf. this site) is of no use. There is no comparison. I am even more so on my own, and more specifically: I have no idea which way is up. There is no path, no ledge onto which I could ponder anything.
The concept of healing or of any kind of roadmap is unavailable. I am there,where there is no “there.”

Making it home means one has done enough “genuflections” (passing the tests to demonstrate one is functional enough). I remember in rehab a four hour psychological evaluation starting at 8:30 a.m. where one element included the need to recall more than once a list of a great many disparate objects, and keep a friendly attitude. Towards the end of that morning, without any break, I asked if I could play on my phone some background music (Satie) to soften the hardship of these non-stop exercises. I was allowed to do so.

If one’s relationship with oneself is barely alive:
To speak (= to have to conjugate verbs) means affirming one’s ”I,” one’s identity.
When someone else wants any kind of attention – could be something as trivial as a “how are you?” – it is impossible to respond properly.  There is nobody home, nobody who could  properly answer.
If one is unpleasant to the outside world, it is because one has not yet established some kind of self.
It is impossible to speak without a well established subject, That’s why one shouts (as a way to say most indirectly: “I am not ready to engage in a conversation of selves!”).

And loud sounds and noise make themselves known as disturbances, absolutely invasive, and preventing any link to self.
Is that kind of hypersensitivity a phenomenon I should expect? Like a great many other questions, I am in the dark.

SURPRISE: “here is your book to take home” 271 pages…

I spend two and a half weeks in a hospital setting…
It is “hell” – there are so many kinds.
This one is made of:
– I am moved from one room to another but… both rooms, both men/neighbors are screaming day and night, and moaning. I cannot believe I am supposed to heal in that environment. I slowly learn that  I am in the “trauma unit,”  where trauma is king.
– I speak to three “case-managers” – someone should be supervising my healing.  All three tell me they will get back to me, but they don’t.
– By the time I leave, I have managed to communicate what I would consider to be eatable by me.
The kind of depersonalized bland cafeteria food I was given feels like being fed by a conveyor belt in a stable. I cannot imagine any kind of senior housing or nursing home food… And the lack of actual privacy.

Dinner = white bread with processed cheddar cheese.

– The morning “doctors rounds” end up being a predictable daily disappointment: I never get a sense of an overview, nor of what is a stake. They do show up, doctor and residents, but before I can have any concrete conversation,  they “have to run elsewhere.”
Every nurse seems to come from a different country – one small way to escape and to find stimulation where I can.

Picture without the screams & moaning & bed-alarm by the next bed…

P.S.:  A friend told me that this reflects the state of the health system in the US. A doctor I spoke with later confirmed that.
NOT to take it personally! [reminds me of Ajahn Sumedho‘s important book: Don’t Take Your Life Personally.]

ADDENDUM!
Just learned much later, that I was in a geriatric trauma unit, nobody told me at the time… but that explains the two different rooms with two screaming neighbors. They should have done some kind of assessment, and possibly put those two together!