The Fog

In a way that makes a lot of sense to me, I'm losing my mind.

That's an ugly thing to say out loud. Hey, I'm not crazy about the idea either, pardon the pun. I'm working as hard as I can to keep those neurons firing away, like Wile E. Coyote flapping his arms before the inevitable fall.

Not a fan of "inevitable" these days. Just not a favorite word for some reason, go figure.

I don't want to give examples anymore. I get so lost in conversations sometimes I need bread crumbs to find my way back. I walked into the kitchen yesterday carrying my dirty laundry. I guess I intended to put it in the clothes hamper and...I don't know what happens. I mean, this can't be unfamiliar to anyone, particularly those of us on the north side of 50. We all do it. We laugh, we comment, sometimes we worry but mostly we accept it as something we do sometimes.

Not all the time, and there it is. My days are all like this now, and have been for months. After months (years, really) of fighting this, apparently I've entered my personal period of acquiescent senescence (sorry). My life is neatly separated in to what I can and can't do, and I'm not really making those calls.

During darker moments, I imagine slowly decompensating in real time online; typos increase, I stop making sense, I say wild things or repeat things I've written many times...it's terrifying, but from a journalistic standpoint it has a certain charm. After documenting so many trivial things in my life, I might as well do the last big one.

But Chuck...you're writing this.

Right? And that's why, as gloomy as this sounds, that's not how I feel at the moment. I need a neurological assessment, but even though this looks a lot like early dementia, I still think of it as just a broken brain. I can retrain it. I'm whistling past the graveyard, a little, but I can be optimistic. I'm allowed.

Julie and John had a great time seeing Paul Simon last night, wonderful seats and just an amazing performance, apparently (we actually know one of the musicians touring with him, fun fact). It's such a good thing for John, I can't tell you. They were still chattering about it after midnight when I went to bed.

I would have had the same energy, I'm sure. And it would have been worth it, even if I'd been exhausted for a few days afterward.

But this is what I'm talking about. I woke up Saturday morning and just thought, Nope. Maybe it was just anxiety, a novel thing after all this time at home, how will it go, what if I have to leave, etc.

But I don't think so. Some of the most important moments in my life are when I barreled through this shit, did what made me uncomfortable because I knew it would all work out. It was just stress, and I could manage stress. I had to learn how, years ago, or else I would have just committed suicide by booze.

That's not this. As I said the other day, this resistance and rejection comes from somewhere else.

And that actually makes it easier. I didn't go last night because I made that decision; it feels like it was made for me. I dunno. I'm new at this chronic disease thing.