Here at reality

Idiosyncratic happenings. A poor explanation for the wormy details of my poor self.
I'm learning about emotion and how my disease plays on all of its parts. All of my influences, both to and from, both self and environment inflicted, good and bad, serve to alter the climate for all who stray within my vicinity, yours truly included.
Love may be a highway, but sympathy is a minefield strewn with the corpses of those who have fallen prey to the reality of the human condition.
On less cryptic terms: those of us under the duress of physical and psychological deconstruction make lousy bedfellows, lousy conversationalists and lousy friends.
In other words, I'm not good at being the object of sorrow, pity or empathy. Best concern yourselves from afar. My close up blemishes, behavior and moanings tend to grow as a blight, seeming perpetual in nature to those nearby.
Nobody is safe. Not even Amy. As I grow more anguished, she grows more fatigued. As I try to comprehend the course of living salvation, she uses all of herself to guide me. When I hurt, she keeps her tears contained. When I hurt her, she simply hurts.

So, find your proper distance. Feel for me, sure, but don't feel me. The fire is too hot. Even with my dependency, I hurt the ones I love. I don't want to survive if I must tread upon the husks of those who saved me.

This is why I must heal myself.

On a cheerier note, we have our family reunion in Austin this weekend. For most of you who cannot find the words to respond, just know that I care more for you all than I do for myself.
Self is overrated. We are nothing alone. Even so, I hold firm in my belief that I am the answer to my destiny. I must simply listen to others in order to follow the right path. I'm working on that.

Slim

So much of my text contains content confusing even to me, I'm sure annoying to many, even derogate to some. I see these posts as a better lens through which to view me. I'm too often dark. I peak in sarcasm and avoidance during these comments. I'm sure some expect my mind is traveling an identical path as my body, simply the next victim of my stalker.

Damn!

I live by the grace of Amy. She is grace.

I promised a lighter post. I guess I lied. Besides, I don't have a lighter!

Here I go!

Today I'm of the belief that if I don't find a way to completely change my way of thinking I will certainly find myself at the bottom of the hill I've been descending the three and a half years since my diagnosis.
No small task lies ahead of me, no guarantee attached, as I piece by piece disassemble each and every thinking mechanism inherent within me for the entirety of my life and reassemble the parts into a living design, leaving remains of anger, frustration, fear and disappointment upon the cutting room floor.
I must force myself to accept the validity of mantra, forgive many, forgive myself, forgive my father and begin to build up faith and trust in a modality, the likes of which escape my concepts of reality, a system based on the spirit rather than the systematic workings of a logic driven brain.
Thus I must segue from my current course and venture into a new universe devoid of all familiarity, the unknown chakra center of spiritual dissemination for my health and happiness.
I'm simply out of options. My present course is too easy to visualize. It ends badly, terribly.
I want what I don't have. It is not what I had before. I want what I never had. I want what I should have had. Simplicity of thought, of need, of love, of cherish and trust. I'm looking for the mindset that I never had.
I want to feel again. I want to face my fears and laugh. There will be no more competition, no more angst, no more anger.

This is the only way I will survive. This is the only way I wish to survive.

Barely readable

Insidiousness prevails within me. No matter what I do, the worm that is Gehrig burrows throughout my insides at a relentless crawl. From my idiotic diagnosis in March of '11 until this very moment, with all certainty beyond and with obstacles strewn along its path until the ultimate disaster ensues, I remain witness and cultivator to and of the grand daddy disease. I am nonplussed, at least. I'm severely pissed off, more accurate.

What am I doing? All I can handle, less than I should, as much as I can understand, not nearly as much as my wife. She is constantly on point with nutrition, detoxification, exercise, belief, hope, faith, love, nurture, joy, forgiveness, therapy, education, spirituality, loyalty, interaction, social involvement and communication. I pull up a distant second, proving pathetic in my inability to absorb even a small percentage of her insight, no a modicum of the concepts of many of her array of attributes. I am in a sea without shoreline, sinking with the weight of my mindset, trying to sprout gills of hope and serenity, all the while anchored by my shortcomings of imagination.

On the other hand, I continually search for the mechanism that eludes me: That device enabling those who have won their battles, those who have walked from the sea, those who can look back and relish the escape they have made, those I might join on the beach.

I've become part of Reddit. Look for me under ALS.

My neck is weak. I need a horseshoe pillow.

Tomorrow I write on a good time. Share this blog with those who want to read my story and I will write until I'm blind.

Hiya

I've been too busy working out for the upcoming "Walk for ALS" event coming to Dallas. All of us afflicted will be in the running for slowest time. I'm sure to win with a guaranteed crossing of the finish line : never. All that aside, I refuse to finish "dead" last. I would prefer to live to not run another day.

So. I'm still around. My wife is still beautiful and under-appreciated, my family is fabulous and my friends are still a caring lot. I hope to see many in August.

I'll write more when I feel like it.

Yuk, yuk, yuk!

I don't know. I don't know. Why me?

I'm not certain of much. One thing is certain. Short sentences rock. Here's how:

I feel everything. Always. I'm anything but paralyzed. Don't stick me. That hurts. I can't talk. This doesn't mean I'm dumb. I have retarded digestion. Again, not dumb. I can't walk. I would. My arms are not useless. They are counterweights. If I itch, oh well. If I hurt, oh hell. If not for Amy, oh no. My skills? Naught. My dependency? All in. The kids? All around. You assess my condition. I won't. My neck grows weaker. I require yet more support. My future? God, don't ask my doctors! I'm supported by everybody, everything. Gravity is my enemy. I have no weapons of self destruction. My weight is Amy's burden.

See what I mean? My problem is this:

my thoughts are long, combining, intertwined vexes of complicated mechanisms luring me to and fro through a slowly swirling vortex of lateral convictions, constantly conflicting with any singleness of coherent expression.

Say that in five words or less, smarty breeches!

I correct myself. Short sentences suck.