242

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

242 days of insanity and the counting is not over yet.

 The adjectives are clinging to their numbers, and waiting for their turn to do qualify a cluster of monotonous and soulless days.

242 days.

 The shock is yesterday’s news, the menopausal hours have given up all hope, and the hot flushes are the new reality.

It has been 8 months and 11 days that I have been living outside the norms, no rush hours, no late subways and my week ends have long lost their fight for sanity.

242 coward days.

 Days hiding behind a thick layer of make up, not even trying to fool anybody, the pimps have long moved on, the Johns lost their desires  and the red district is  an island of family-friendly  overpriced condos.

Reminiscence is what’s left, chewing on an old water- soaked bread, my daily bread.

8 months and 11 days, the gestation is over and the new born is a grey haired frail character. Time has fast forwarded the aging process, the days have surrendered to the years, and the new master took over.

 Hail the new master.

Short-breathed years, and the race is a quest for sanity.

Acceptance and resignation are not synonymous; the line is fine but still. Acceptance is waking up every morning and pretending that the hand you were dealt is not your fault, nor is the dealer’s, and resignation is cursing the cards and leaving the game.

Acceptance is a long and lonely path to what could be, acceptance is prying to a god that may or may not care. Resignation is taking charge and deserting all the temples.

   

A Portrait of Carlotta

 Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

Long time I ago I learnt that sleep is like a frightened deer, the more you insist, the further it runs away.

 4 am and no sleep in the horizon, so I just gave up chasing the frightened deer and instead I netflixed Vertigo, the movie.

No doubt, Alfred Hitchcock was a genius and his take on the vertigo was a success, taking in consideration that the movie was made 54 years ago.

Basically, vertigo according to Mr. Hitchcock is some kind of phobia, a post traumatic reaction to Johnny’s lost of a partner; the fear of height was a synonymous of vertigo.  The master had an excuse; at least the movie is dated in the late 50s, but what about the health system in this time and age? And what about the skepticism of the people who deal with ‘’dizzy’’ people, and I mean the families, the friends, the colleagues and bureaucratic machine.

I heard so many stories about people, who were denied the right to ‘’be sick” by their families, by a jerk boss or some guy behind a government desk. People who were denied any kind of help, because they were considered fit to work and that vertigo is just some kind of light dizziness that can go away with a magic Advil pill or the other brand.

A lot of people finish by giving up, and just stop talking about their disease to the few people who did not desert them.

 I have talked with people who are afraid to talk even to their doctors about what they are going through, because they know that the health system is full of flaws and for lot of people out there, vertigo is but some form of depression, anxiety or some other mental reaction to everyday’s life stress.

I spent almost a year looking for some support group, some kind of a place where I can call or go and get a real and practical help, and not some B.S non sense and trust me on this, finding help is like chasing a frightened deer at 4 am. Good luck with that.

As far as I am concerned, I am going to continue chasing the deer and doing what I can to educate people about the dark sides of vertigo. I hope that in a near future, vertigo will acquire it status of a full time ‘body’ disease.

The orphan disease

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

Don’t get me wrong, being sick sucks, but all diseases aren’t created equal.

   First day of vertigo is weird; you don’t know what hit you. Is it a stroke? Is it deficiency in some alphabetical vitamin or nutrient? Is it a mere reaction to stress, or exhaustion?

  Day 2, you take whatever the doctors say, probably some infection that won’t last long, and a treatment with antibiotics is the solution.

Day 3, you know you have been sick before and it was not that bad so, you go back to your routine; work, school, or whatever you used to do before you were interrupted by vertigo/infection/an exhaustion episode.

Day 4 vertigo proves you wrong. It obliges you to take it more seriously, it demands more respect. After all, it is not your common infection and the journey is going to be long and, if you are not lucky enough, a very lonely one.

Then, you would see more doctors, they would prescribe more drugs, and they would send you to see more specialized doctors, who would send for more MRIs, CT scans, ECGs,EKGs…by then you would lose your job, you would not remember the last time you left your bed, and the dizziness would be a daily occurrence.

I am no doctor but I can assure you that there is a rule in medicine; when drugs don’t work and the all the imagery abbreviations are negative, doctors get skeptical.

When doctors see that vertigo/dizziness/swaying/rocking…refuse to respond to their medication and start to act like a stubborn teenager, they just give up.

‘Maybe it is just in your head” is doctor’s way to say, I can’t cure you and I am going to send you to SEE SOMEONE, it’s easier this way! They try to come up with simplistic diagnosis: you are stressed (who is not), exhausted (come again!), or some other non sense medical lingo…

Then, lo and behold! Your vertigo is getting worse, your doctor is in denial, and your ship is sinking and the rats have long gone AWOL.

After a couple of days of depression and hopelessness, you try to stand up, anyways, you have to, it is not like you have lot of choices. You start by looking for people like you, people in the same condition and you hope one of them would have the answer to your nagging questions. Lack of experts, you would try to create one.

Then you would stumble upon some web sites, you would spill you guts, you would read others’ stories and it would help. In a world where the support groups and associations are plentiful, you would discover that there is not lot of support groups, associations or real help for you, you struck the wrong disease, the orphan among orphans.

You would fantasize about creating a group or an association to educate people about this disease but that would be a project for another day.

The voyage would be long. Patience and action plans are the key words.

PS: if you are reading this and you are suffering from vertigo or any of its variants, please do something, don’t stay in your corner suffering alone. If writing is not too hard for you, send comments, ask or give advice, the same applies to you those who are brave enough not to abandon the ship. You are all welcome!

Cherchez la femme

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

Women in my life have never been good with timing, story of my life, they tend to come in the wrong time and when they exit they leave a big void behind them.

There were the ones that knocked on the door my life way before I was ready to invite them in, the ones that were too right and too scary in the same time, the ones that they were so late that when they showed up, the damage was already done, there were women whose clocks were ticking so loud that I run for the safety of guilt free encounters, and there were others.

The needy, the unsecure and the ones dragging heavy weights of non-resolved-anterior relationships…

Then, she made her entrance, shy but able to stand her ground, smart but not in your typical in your face way, and she was free.

On and off and then I was served my deportation papers to Vertigoville and my world was shuttered to hundreds of screaming and disoriented pieces.

And she took over, she slowed down the speed of my spinning world and since then no day passed without her bringing offerings of understanding, patience and a comforting sense of humor.

She had a mission: walk me through the exhausting and full of surprises labyrinth of Vertigoville. She helped me  achieve a certain sense of sanity; she showed me how to gain back a lost trust, how to get some kind of closure with a surreal and bone chilling experience and put me  on the path to a better me.

This post is for her.

She is a refreshing smell of earth just after the passing of a cold front at the end of a hot and humid day.

Cave Canem

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

When I was a kid I used to be scared of dogs, I remember when I was 7 years old, I was walking to school, a couple of blocks no more, and out of nowhere 2 big dogs started chasing me, I was terrified, so I run like a 7 years old kid could run.

It didn’t take the 2 dogs long before they caught up with me and surprise, surprise, instead of biting me they just smelled me and went back to where they came from.

Those 2 dogs never hurt me, but I developed a kind of fear from dogs, I cannot call my fear a phobia  but it was similar.

 I started to be careful around dogs, did whatever I could to avoid them, it didn’t matter how long a detour to my destination, I was always ready to walk the extra block to avoid a dog.

 With time I developed some kind of instinct, an antenna, I could smell dogs blocks away. During those days, I used to rely on my instinct and it worked, I managed to keep myself from being harmed by what I thought to be a ferocious animal.

When I grew up, I learnt through experience that dogs are nice, loyal and harmless companions. I learnt to love dogs and to trust them.

My fear was gone but my survival instincts stayed with me, I was able to smell the coward and the harmful; it was a simple formula, avoid these kind of people whenever you can and never let your guards around them, but my formula had a flaw, it applies only to strangers, I used to believe that the closer the person the lesser the harm he/she would cause.

I was wrong, like dogs, strangers rarely hurt us and if they do so, its random and quick; in fact we are more venerable around those who convinced us to trust them.

When close people strike its never random or quick, they take their time in orchestrating their plans, and they always shoot to kill.

Beware of dogs if you choose to do so, but the meaner dog is always closer than you think.

Don't cry over spilled guts.

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

        When I was deported to Vertigoville, my forced exile, it was an inner earthquake.

My world shook vehemently, the ground dropped under my feet and since then, the spinning was my daily bread and the aftershocks were a constant occurrence.

No day passed without that constant feeling of rumbling in my guts, my guts could not take I spilled my guts on the land of my exile.

I dreamt of the day my forced exile would come to an end, I dreamt of the day I would receive my release papers so I could go back to everything that I left behind.

And I dreamt some more, how I would handle things, how I would cherish everything, how I would love my neighbor and turn the cheek.

Time passed and the earthquakes got feebler and feebler, and the aftershocks distant and distant, but still no release papers in the horizon.

I needed to be proactive, I needed an action plan, I needed a passage back to my old me, I missed my old me.

I fanaticized about the day I would reach my promised port, where my old me would be waiting for me among all the people I ever loved.

 During one of these day dreams I got a glimpse of my promised port, a deserted port, my old me was but a corpse on the deck and my loved ones were but ghosts enjoying being ghosts.

That day, Vertigoville ceased to be an exile, it became a home.

 I needed to adapt, to accept to live in my new home, and I needed to learn the rules governing my town.

There is no going back in Vertigoville, all the movement is forward, laws of physics oblige, there is no past, and yesterdays never occurred, the future was the key word.

I could not go back and picked up my spilled guts on the streets of my old world, I had to carry on moving forward, laws of physics oblige.

I had to learn to live without guts, I can do it, and I have seen people live their lives without guts.

The gutless and the ghosts would inherit the earth.

    

Terra Firma

Note to the reader: if you are brave enough to visit my town, vertigoville, pop.1, stroll down to the bottom of this blog, it reads better in a chronological manner.

Caution: side effects may include nausea, dizziness, and lost of innocence.

      I am a sailor, an outcast, a pariah, a leprous and one of many lost souls.

 For the last 7 months or so, I have been living on a rocking boat with no destination, just wandering the roaring seas, lonely, endless seas.

 My north star stopped shinning a long time ago; my gods gave up on me, and my people, o my people they fear water, they cannot get wet.

Every night, I hear their voices; we miss you, we are dying to help you, but you have to find your way to the safe shores.

When you are on the Terra Firma you are our beloved son but when the storm hits and you are battling for your life on your shaky boat, you are on your own.

 My people are made of salt, and water is their enemy.

My people spend their long life avoiding water; the higher and  more menacing a body of water becomes, the further they run to the safety of their caves.

My people are a kind of salt statues; it is not their fault, that’s  the way they are.

 You can call them mean, canning, heartless bastards, but for me they are just my people, statues made of salt.

My people are just a bunch of helpless, hopeless bunch of salt statues, enjoying what they best do,

gather every night on the shore of safety and wait for their beloved son to return while they are telling stories.

My people are good at making stories and repeating them over and over till they become their reality.

In my people s stories nothing worth telling ever happens, there is no movement in my people s

stories and no character is responsible for his actions. All the characters in my people stories are

made of salt. And every character is the center of the world, omniscient, omnipotent and willing to

come to the rescue of anybody in need. The rule in my peoples stories is simple; come to the safety of

 the shore and you will be offered a helping hand, and a formula on how to sleep in peace at night.

Let the dizzy souls roam the high seas and dream of the promised Terra Firma, they will receive the help they need when the danger is over.