After several days of breathing difficulty singularly book-ended with severe gut ache, two consecutive visits to the hospital with no definitive conclusion other than determining that I have sludge in my gallbladder and a stone in my stage left kidney, I've come to my own conclusion that we, Amy and I, are on our own on this journey whether we like it or not.
So much for my current status.
Let me take you on a trip via Mr Peabody's "Wayback Machine", appropriate as an apparatus as it is contemporary with the time signature of our destination. I'm putting the controls to 1965. In an instant we are there.
The year my dad almost succeeded at committing suicide.
You are wondering why the hell I would ever post a thing like this to my blog. Truth is, I spoke of it a couple years ago in this very blog, long before many of you began reading. Then why now?
Well, as it becomes apparent with the progression of my disease that the mishandling of past traumatic experiences in all likelihood contributes to my ability to function with any kind of stress today. This exploration may actually mend my mind enough to escape (poor choice of word, live with it) the destructive fight or flight mode locked in perpetual "on" position. In a session long before we moved to Dallas, Amy hypnotized me and I saw (in my mind's eye) an apparatus, a large fifties era control panel replete with knobs, toggles, switches and gauges. I believe this was a representation of the working part of my brain. I was unable to touch the panel and clueless as to how to correct the error that put me on my current path. You ask me what does this have to do with resetting my historical record? I dunno. I'm just trying to change my mindset here. If I'm to do that, it makes sense to exhale the dirty scoundrels of pent up emotions that over the years have carved me in to the staunch denier I have become. Closure can only be brought about by opening doors to my past. The reason I'm sharing this is simple : power in speaking out. If I contain this, it has won. Please excuse the collateral damage.
First, my mom died a couple of years ago.
Also, my dad is alive in a Woodstock nursing home.
I am seven years old. We live in a modest three bedroom house that my dad built two years earlier. I remember everything about that house. The layout was identical to a model designed by Ladd Construction, the company my dad worked for. It's no secret that dad has the opinion that carpenter work is beneath him. He makes it clear that a nail pounder claims a low rung on the ladder of success.
Let me switch from present to past tense.
I was seven years old when my dad nailed the garage door shut, started the car, crawled beneath it and sucked fumes until me and mom dragged him out the service door.
As I said, my dad saw his profession as lowly. In his frustration, he became disillusioned and depressed enough to make a feeble, yet potentially successful attempt to take his own life. I recognized it then, at seven. I should have demanded counseling, but what was available for a second grader of a lowly carpenter family in 1965? Jack shit. Identical today for lowly carpenter family with dad who has ALS.
I can still remember the sixteen penny nail driven through the overhead garage door, nose high, at an angle into the frame, not set flush as if somewhere in my dad's mind he was thinking of removing it when the business at hand was completed. The bluish purple of the nail head, reflected from the single bulb of the ceiling keyless porcelain is still ingrained in my memory.
I remember a booze bottle under the car. It was planted there. Dad wasn't a home drinker. Besides, how do you drink anything while under a car? I don't believe for one second dad needed alcohol to kill himself.
I don't remember what kind of car it was.
The Ambulance took him away.
A limp body is heavy for a seven year old and his mom.
I never talked to anybody about it.
I'm sure dad got brain damage that day, as did I.
So much for my current status.
Let me take you on a trip via Mr Peabody's "Wayback Machine", appropriate as an apparatus as it is contemporary with the time signature of our destination. I'm putting the controls to 1965. In an instant we are there.
The year my dad almost succeeded at committing suicide.
You are wondering why the hell I would ever post a thing like this to my blog. Truth is, I spoke of it a couple years ago in this very blog, long before many of you began reading. Then why now?
Well, as it becomes apparent with the progression of my disease that the mishandling of past traumatic experiences in all likelihood contributes to my ability to function with any kind of stress today. This exploration may actually mend my mind enough to escape (poor choice of word, live with it) the destructive fight or flight mode locked in perpetual "on" position. In a session long before we moved to Dallas, Amy hypnotized me and I saw (in my mind's eye) an apparatus, a large fifties era control panel replete with knobs, toggles, switches and gauges. I believe this was a representation of the working part of my brain. I was unable to touch the panel and clueless as to how to correct the error that put me on my current path. You ask me what does this have to do with resetting my historical record? I dunno. I'm just trying to change my mindset here. If I'm to do that, it makes sense to exhale the dirty scoundrels of pent up emotions that over the years have carved me in to the staunch denier I have become. Closure can only be brought about by opening doors to my past. The reason I'm sharing this is simple : power in speaking out. If I contain this, it has won. Please excuse the collateral damage.
First, my mom died a couple of years ago.
Also, my dad is alive in a Woodstock nursing home.
I am seven years old. We live in a modest three bedroom house that my dad built two years earlier. I remember everything about that house. The layout was identical to a model designed by Ladd Construction, the company my dad worked for. It's no secret that dad has the opinion that carpenter work is beneath him. He makes it clear that a nail pounder claims a low rung on the ladder of success.
Let me switch from present to past tense.
I was seven years old when my dad nailed the garage door shut, started the car, crawled beneath it and sucked fumes until me and mom dragged him out the service door.
As I said, my dad saw his profession as lowly. In his frustration, he became disillusioned and depressed enough to make a feeble, yet potentially successful attempt to take his own life. I recognized it then, at seven. I should have demanded counseling, but what was available for a second grader of a lowly carpenter family in 1965? Jack shit. Identical today for lowly carpenter family with dad who has ALS.
I can still remember the sixteen penny nail driven through the overhead garage door, nose high, at an angle into the frame, not set flush as if somewhere in my dad's mind he was thinking of removing it when the business at hand was completed. The bluish purple of the nail head, reflected from the single bulb of the ceiling keyless porcelain is still ingrained in my memory.
I remember a booze bottle under the car. It was planted there. Dad wasn't a home drinker. Besides, how do you drink anything while under a car? I don't believe for one second dad needed alcohol to kill himself.
I don't remember what kind of car it was.
The Ambulance took him away.
A limp body is heavy for a seven year old and his mom.
I never talked to anybody about it.
I'm sure dad got brain damage that day, as did I.
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