I don’t want to embarrass myself, but I feel a compulsion
to make an entry in this journal. Forgive the flaws; but here’s a brief rundown
of recent (possible) HD behavior:
MW still won’t go see her father – still makes me go in
her stead. Used to be she’d let me go alone; now, however, she wants to come
with and sit in the car in the driveway. This, she said, makes her feel closer.
Anyway, last weekend her father walked me out of the house. MW had to duck down
under the dashboard to hide. I was reminded of the award-winning flash fiction
story about the young girl hiding from her lover’s wife. Then I felt like
crying.
MW still has problems sleeping – talking all night about
imagined illnesses, but last night she fell stone-asleep by, like, 9:30 at
night. I’m not sure what’s up with that? Was she just so exhausted or is it
something else? Something HD related? Seriously, it doesn’t happen often, but occasionally
these sleeping fits come upon her and it’s like a switch gets flipped off. Her
Aunt used to display the same symptom (and is now HD+). This may require
research.
2014.05.06
Twice within the last two weeks I’ve found myself hugging the toilette bowl, cramming a toothbrush down my throat, trying to induce vomiting. Bulimia? No, nothing quite so glam. Rather, I’d realized I’d imbibed too much booze and was attempting to preemptively strike the resulting sickness through injudicious purging.
2014.05.06
Twice within the last two weeks I’ve found myself hugging the toilette bowl, cramming a toothbrush down my throat, trying to induce vomiting. Bulimia? No, nothing quite so glam. Rather, I’d realized I’d imbibed too much booze and was attempting to preemptively strike the resulting sickness through injudicious purging.
It didn’t work. Either time.
Yesterday, while taking a walk, I was staggered by a powerful recollection of a place I’d never been; an event that never happened. Hard to describe, but I stumbled over my own feet as I saw in my mind’s eye a familiar hiking trail – complete with trees, gently running creek, dappled sunlight – but knew that the trail did not exist. It was a figment of my imagination. There was a break in the path – I remembered – where you either had to use rock-climbing skills to traverse a steep bluff, or cross the water to the other side where there was no trail, only thick underbrush and weeds.
Also, there was a girl somewhere on the trial. I couldn’t recall if she was ahead of me and I had to catch her, or if she was behind me and I had to wait, but I knew she was there.
I could smell the wild scallops and feel the dirt under my hands from traversing the bluff.
Only this never happened. This place doesn’t exist. It was like a decades old dream suddenly exploded into my consciousness. I’ve always discounted claims of déjà vu and the like, but this was such an overwhelming feeling of place and time, I got rattled and had to sit on a park bench for a while.
And finally last night I experienced such a perfect “Lost Weekend” moment, I had to laugh. See, I totally forgot where I’d hidden a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey. It wasn’t in any of the usual spots, so I frantically started tearing up my room. Wait. Pause. Take a breath. The guest room closet, yes, because nobody ever goes in there.
Crises averted.
Still, all these events combined make me think my brain is breaking, if not broken already. And it isn’t the alcohol. Well, maybe say it isn’t JUST the alcohol. Maintaining status quo with MW as she continues to descend into Huntington’s disease is like a constant mental hammer. The booze keeps this throb from becoming a full-on Ginger Baker drum solo.
Problem is: with both our brains breaking, what’s going to happen to us?
