Diving. (Redux)

[This essay was originally a 450-word blog from a couple of years ago. At that time, I knew I wanted to expound upon it when I had the chance and afflatus. The time arrived, and I took the opportunity to broaden and add substance to the original version.]

It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Words and their implications, their emotions. Solitude. Alone. Lonely. Words, effectively shocking the sensibilities into a moment of torsion, so that with ripples and waves, contentment can be meticulously shaped and then aloofly mangled. The bliss of the first, solitude, with a build of wind and pressure contorting placidly to the second, alone, and then with wicked disregard, cracking against the sky to the third, lonely. And then, with the precision and grace of a ballet, the water performing pointe work, transforming the raging storm to an ethereal, breath-taking sunset--- where does the water stop and the sky begin? Where does the bleakness of loneliness end and the joy of solitude emerge? It shifts as if we are puppets, as if our minds are not our own, moments like breaths, imperative yet altered easily by that which is invisible, all of everything which surrounds us. Must we endure the tempest to secure the tranquil hush?

We hold our distance in our eyes. Whether blankness, fierceness, a capacity for embracement, a level of warmth--- like wild animals venturing into the populace, we demand a length between ourselves and others. Unlike wolves and mountain lions, we may have learned some suitable social behavior, but our innate need for solitude, for open spaces, for autonomy of thought, movement, senses--- that’s our wildness, that’s in our eyes. In that, our needs cannot be disguised, not with a smile, not with a nod; look closely and they hold the detached depth past the smokescreen. Within our eyes is the want to be away. We want to be undetectable, we want to be incapable of being tracked down. Once we are away, once we are by ourselves, we savor the seclusion, almost rolling our eyes into our heads to watch the ivory towers being built, layering and spiraling upward and around our braincases as if made of butter cream and fondant, expanding with the speed and chaos of fractals. Solitude is a safe house when done right. A refuge with air so rare, both cleansing and purifying, in just the time of a finger snap, we decompress and depressurize. When by ourselves, it's as if our muscles and organs relax as one, our entire body mellowing with a soothing slowly unfurled exhale. Our brain intermittently skips from a million random thoughts to a clearing, settling into the release, as if mere minutes as a solitudinarian have provided a most pleasant mind glade, all the berserkers bulldozed to the outskirts so that there is space... there's space! The cells have motility and their eurythmy starts to swirl with thoughts now possible to be rewarding. We cherish this. Time content by ourselves is our dearest reality. Right now, right here-- it's all good. We can loll about in our own melodious, marshmallowy mind. It's nice. Happy. Easy breezy.

So, for that moment, we got what we wanted. That's what we wanted, and, YAY, we got it. Later on, it doesn't matter how near or far the later is, we get this tiny weird ache. We start to realize that though we have everything we had wanted, we are without anyone or anything else. That can't be good. The feeling of freedom we recently had was unparallelled. But now, we don't know, we're not sure, maybe we want to be parallelled. Whaddya think about that, huh? We could be parallelled. And, so quickly, the glorious instant of Shangri-la, our hush sui generis, is collapsing before us, so that our idiotic giddiness, that complete lack of inhibition, becomes slippery and spins from our safe selves into an isolated free fall. There it is: the bliss of the first pressured and contorting into the second, and we have no idea why it's happening. To go from the first, solitude, to the second, alone... the storm's a-brewing. But, it's still pretty nice here, right? We're still okay, aren't we? Hmm, hard to tell. See, that's the thing: words have implications and emotions which all of us are painfully aware. The rapture implied by solitude (“I'm on my own!”), depending upon where our heads are at any given moment, can be subject to whispered innuendo, so that we think not of what we have but of what we are without, and we shift to the anxiety insinuated by alone (“I'm by myself”). And, those jinxing breaths we heard? They came from our own big dumb heads! Gosh. What's next? Once we become anxious, we have put out the welcome mat for fear. That's the only way fear can get in and it doesn't miss any opportunity. Fear arrives like a showman, hoofing from one lightning bolt to another with Fred Astaire jauntiness, mesmerizing us to such a level that our readiness for the crack of thunder has evaporated, gripping us so much that Lucifer could be lurking beneath the top hat and we wouldn't notice. Why? Because even though we're solo, no one can deny that lightning is not only wicked groovy, but also it's pretty. Too bad there's no one to share it with. Sigh. First spellbound and then mushy and moony, how could we have possibly known that the clap and boom were right behind and amplified enough to make us piss ourselves? There it is again: first bliss, then anxiety, and the sky cracks open, and we get a jolt that leaves us in a cold sweat; we flinch and shudder from the realization that the anxiety insinuated by alone (“I'm by myself”) has morphed and been wrested into the dread secreted by lonely (“I have no one, I have nothing”). It's a dire place, a continual state of torment, overcome by the high tide, feeling the water surge into our mouths, yet never drowning. The idea of us as independent is now a mockery, having buckled our will and deformed us into outcasts. The asphyxia is making us loopy, and with our heads bobbing, when above water hearing chaos and when below marveling at how so much life and activity can be soundless, and so often silence is associated with peacefulness, but now we know that isn't inherently true, because we are here, we are within the quiet, and we are without any semblance of peace. Here and isolated, we have only this torture of loneliness.

Each of us determines the times we crave solitude; we have reasons, we have circumstances; we destine our aspirations and then boldly and blindly hope the arrival of our desires precede our gasps for air. The shift amongst the three solitary levels can be furious, so that the intense yearning for solitude can nearly bypass the duality of alone before drowning in loneliness. Just as rapidly, we can be rescued, surrounded by those we like, and, more joyously, those we love, and then, soon enough, we become edgy and anxious because there are too many, it's just too much, and the longing for solitude reemerges. Despite what some people who know me think, my need for solitude is not based upon healthfulness or illness. I could be well--- with my confidence solid, my energy steady, and the MS temporarily contained, or unwell--- the disease turning brutish and mean, like a boisterous bully pointing and har-haring as I attempt to rise up after being shoved to the ground from behind, only to be flatfoot kicked in the backside, knocking me down once again. Either way there is a chance my craving for solitude will emerge. My eyes, at that moment and with every breath, will hold a savage element, implicitly indicating an intense need for no others. At those times, I crave the companionship of music more than humans; living without constant song might devastate. Ella, my dog, is needed, not only for her ability to comfort and inspirit me, but also because her mere presence assures my soundness and functionality; she needs to be let outside for voiding purposes, to have her water bowl refilled, and to eat. Her needs insist upon periodic abeyance of my rapid thought, allaying my possible madness yet without the incessant piffle common to humans. Visitors are unwelcome; social contact is an irritation. Because, you see, when I get like this, people are like gnats, buzzing my concentration and biting my attention. Needing to think, needing to process, needing to write, to move and rest and rage and weep and reconcile, are matters I do best without others. Disturbances are intolerable, nearly as disruptive and disastrous as would be the bleat of bagpipes during neurosurgery. Proven true many times, my best concepts, writings, and resolutions come when I have entered a dark chasm, exploratory in nature though beastly with threat. The expansion of thought without the nuisance of interaction releases raw creativity, offers discernment, provides revelation, and confers harmless folly. It’s a mental form of cave diving--- risks and dangers unseen, no quick ascent for new breath--- lacking floating guide lines and haphazardly dismissing accepted protocol, it is a perilous endeavor. As I transgress, I ensure I shall be scathed; emotional stalactites surely will scrape and puncture. Still, I accept that cognitive caverns are rarely fatal, without even sketchy statistics for confirmation. After all, the entire foundation of risk is belief.

Because I am mortal and do not suffer from antisocial personality disorder (I am not without issues, but, as far as I know, I'm not a sociopath), my desire for rapport will eventually emerge. My mind may be in an uproar while my body is in arrest. One sound can soothe me while another sound rankles me. I fight sitting down and abhor lying down but my body is pulling me to the ground, sometimes with a ferocious yank. My eyes, at those moments and with those breaths, hold a despairing element, implicitly indicating an intense urgency for others. My dog is still needed, always, as her aptitude to both ease and enliven me is unequaled. Alas, Ella is old, starting to get slightly confused, losing her sight and hearing, walking with the same aching stumble that I do. Just as I need to be tended to, I give care to her-- protective, overprotective, gently and mercifully safeguarding her body, once strong and quick and thriving, from any danger and injury; calmly and patiently fading any panic which assaults her mind, once confident and clever and booming. Watching the two of us attempt to navigate stairs is comical, reminiscent of Lucille Ball's vitameatavegamin episode; I tell her that just because we move unsteadily doesn't mean we aren't fun gals. When she's too weak to climb the stairs to the bedroom, I sleep on the couch as she slumbers on the loveseat, and I whisper to her that I wasn't eager to make that trek myself. She has accidents now, on occasion. When she sullies the floor, I soothe her evident shame with a soft voice, warm smile, and gentle touch to her adorable face, assuring her that it will one day happen to me, too, so not to worry. Whenever I'm this sick, I wonder who will die first, and if it's me, Ella will be lost and frightened, which I could not bear from any afterlife. And, if it's her, I will be inconsolable and take it as the final blow, the one I'm not sure I will survive. Maybe we will die at the same time, I think, and I'm not sure if that's the sweetest thing in the world or dreadfully pathetic. She takes her arthritis medication in the morning as I pop my multitude of pills. While gulping coffee I tell her that if I was a dog, I would have been put down years ago. It can't possibly be genuine, but sometimes it appears that she nods, as if to say, “True enough.” Though humans do not have the option of euthanasia for themselves, we can end the pain and suffering of our pets. I wish for her a merciful death, am committed to her comfort, and will not keep her alive if her quality of life is poor. If her distress overcomes her smile, if her spirit fades and her eyes dim their twinkle, I will not be selfish, even as my heart desiccates and consequently shatters.

Although I do sometimes welcome visitors, I am apprehensive about their reactions to the continual decay of my body and the occasional slip of my mind. Also, when I'm ill, the badass Martha Stewart in me is disgraced by my home's appearance: no longer pristine, dreary somehow-- as if my sickness can block the sun and dull the windows-- and, this is shameful, out of chocolates. Soon enough, my need for others to join my incessant jabber dwarfs my persnickety primness. Human contact is vital; pride is not. And, I don't know how to act and react to those alarmed. Should the progression of the disease be discussed or should it be chucked out, heaving with a heavy ho the elephant in the room and allowing only “bouncy trouncy flouncy fun fun fun fun.” How long will it last? However long in the day I last, I guess. We ignore the elephant ramming the wall, even with my staggered walk and stunted talk. Despite the elephant's demolition, forming its own threshold in time with my bathroom breaks and intolerable aches, we hee-haw at whatever we can grasp before my body finally trumpets, “Sorry, Tigger, but Daddy took the T-bird away.”

And, sometimes, the illness itself mystifies. Three friends visited one day and were relieved by my appearance, insisting that I looked great and that they had feared much worse. Only one week earlier, other friends had watched me struggle to lift myself from the couch to stagger to the bathroom time after time, had glanced at me sleeping--- curled up and pained, careworn and hollow-eyed--- and they had wondered to each other if I would survive another thirty days. Who's fibbing? Or, can this disease and its spores change my appearance THAT much? I know that from one day to the next, I can go from exhibiting a modicum of vitality, able to walk and talk almost like I once had to being unable to raise my body from the bed. Despite my inner drill sergeant verbally bloodying me and calling me names that would make la-di-da prigs ruddy with umbrage and repugnance, I could not move. Mortifying. It was the juice of disgrace dribbled over a septic wound. Did my body understand who it was defying? Or, was it now that the power had switched control, that my mind had to kowtow to the whims of my collapsing habitus? Alone while severely ailing, prostrated and with swirling mental imagery, I looked at my life, the entirety of my life, almost as if it was a dead body beneath my feet. Shaking my head side to side and with blood-speckled hands extended, I tearfully wailed, “What have I done?” Everything appeared in kaleidoscopic flash memories: my exes now happily coupled with others; so many friends with these amazing children yet my womb barren; so many friends lost or forgotten or discarded, with painful questions attached-- 'Why did they stop liking me?' and, 'How could I have done that?'; moments of lust, rapture, true love; lies I told, people I hurt, things I stole; agony, vitality, pride, humiliation; some of what I thought meant something meaning nothing; what I thought meant nothing meaning everything... why couldn't I take some things back? Why couldn't I relive certain hours, certain days? Did I squander my time on earth? Did my existence mean anything good for anyone? What was my life? Oh, the grim madness of it all!! You see, this is why we love cheesy movies and happy-ending books so much--- the characters get to go back in time and fix things; they get to relive and correct times of shame and lost chances, to say “I'm sorry”, to tell someone “I love you”, to take the risk, turn down a different road, to say “Yes” instead of “No” or “No” instead of “Yes”. We love that! And, we want that. Even though I have often attested that I have no regrets, that doesn't mean I wouldn't mind a couple do-overs. Sadly, we don't get do-overs. What we get is the power of compassion; what we too often learn is that we are unworthy of showing any to ourselves. If we are fortunate, during our time alone we reeducate ourselves, so that rather than do-overs, we learn how to make amends and how to forgive; we learn acceptance and we learn letting go; we learn to have faith, whether in humanity or a god or individuals or ourselves; we teach ourselves peace.

Still, with the ever-present possibility of drowning in loneliness just a single breath away from our blissful solitude, why do we risk it? Why would we dare? Knowing darkness is a possibility, why would we purposely plunge into a chasm of self? It's because of the emergence of the dawn; with every aurora, we experience our own advent. We know the waves dance; we have seen it. We know that with each daybreak, with the continuous swell of the sea, we have another chance at grace. We gain awareness through the time we are solo, that time of introspection beneath the starry night, at once feeling wholly insignificant but also sensing we are each a minute portion of absolute magnificence. Above us, sempiternal celestial bodies; below us, nearly infinite oceanic molecules; within us, hundreds of billions of brain cells. Encircled by grandeur and empowered with musing, honestly, how could I possibly stop myself? I’m diving.