My prolonged absence from this space is a thing I can't even feel bad about anymore.
In truth, it simply reflects an overall absence in general; a feeling of simultaneous vacancy and overwhelm–of being so buried and behind–so beyond hope of ever digging my way out.
I have less than zero bandwidth (does that even make sense?) I should be doing several dozen other things rather than pausing to pen this update, yet something compels me to record this moment.
Replanted
At the end of April, I moved.
I'd been looking for a new home for more than a year, having lived at the same address for nearly 7. For more reasons than I can begin to outline, my need for significant change was long overdue. I'd found a place–was all set to rent an apartment from a friend here in Portland–then my brother fell ill.
I dropped everything and flew South to be at his bedside at Stanford Hospital; a decision that not only cost me financially, but truly derailed me...in just about every possible way.
I had to postpone a significant video gig I'd been scheduled to film for the week after I left town. The income from that job would've covered my moving costs, part of which (the deposit) was due two weeks after I left. As that date approached, having no idea how much longer I'd be staying in California, I had to give up the apartment. Yet I'd already set the wheels in motion; someone else was set to move into my place on May 1st.
That meant that, from the moment I landed back in Portland some 3 weeks after I'd abruptly departed, I had to hit the ground running in search of a new home–now with the added pressure of a hard deadline. Finding a place was hard enough when my timing was spacious. It became a whole new kind of stressful and all-consuming.
Only adding to that was the immeasurable exhaustion I was combating, on an emotional level, in the wake of my time at Stanford.
Deep Roots
The intricacies of my family dynamics were highlighted as we grappled with my brother's illness–all imbalances brought to light–our disfunction, magnified.
I was reminded, in no uncertain terms, why I'd felt compelled to move away all those years ago.
I struggled not to slip right back into unhealthy ideas about my worth and value, as outlined by relationships formed when I was far too young to know any better–when the validation I most desperately craved was that of my older siblings.
I tried so hard not to be reflexively reactive–not to behave in ways that might trigger deeply entrenched patterns. Much to my dismay, familial complexities seem the most stubbornly difficult to avoid; despite my best efforts–as though clearly seeing the rusty barbs had no effect on my behavior–I stepped solidly into the center of the bear-trap.
I observed my own unraveling, incapable of stopping it, somewhat removed and painfully aware of things I hadn't wanted to acknowledge before. I noticed the roots of so many internal weeds, invasive tendrils planted by others, yet watered and nurtured by me–like barbed blackberry vines, slowly crowding out and choking the bright blossoms that might've grown in their place.
And that pervasive black mold that has nearly overtaken me now–that insidious, shadowy rot that has so weakened my sense of self–I could see the spores from which it grew...how the beginnings of it were present in the very first layers of my foundation, clinging already to my delicate frame.
If only such clarity of vision had been accompanied by a lightening of emotional burdens. Instead, I flew home in a state of utter defeat–more vacuous and groundless than ever.
Fallen Leaves
Adding insult to injury, two days after I landed back in the PNW, a beautiful human whom I'd come to adore whilst visiting Stanford–another patient in the ICU named Richard Ford–passed away quite suddenly, sending my already whiplashed emotions into a tailspin.
I'd bonded with his family in the waiting area, which was little more than an echoey hallway. I'd serenaded Richard, at the request of his beautiful wife, Kimberly. She'd heard me singing 'Rag-Doll' and asked me to please share it with her husband. He sat smiling with his eyes closed, listening intently as Kimberly and his daughter, Natalie, sat crying at the foot of his bed. As I finished, he opened his eyes, smiled warmly and said...'That is so appropriate.'
And so began my regular visits with 'Papa'. Sometimes I'd play him lullabies, other times we'd enjoy light-hearted chats. He was incredibly easy to love–even in his post-operative state–and it took him all of a day to let me know he already loved me. He'd tell me so each time I said goodbye. As I'd kiss his forehead, he'd giggle, tell me he loved me and thank me for being part of his family. At the time, that seemed a little premature, but...I now understand just how sincere he was.
The connection between his family and I grew stronger by the day. Along with his wife, daughter and son, Austin, I also bonded with a dear angel of a woman named Kay, herself an honorary Ford family member for more than 2 decades.
When the strain of nearly losing my brother sent my relatives and I crashing excruciatingly into one another, it was the Fords who caught me as I plummeted towards the darkest depths. They offered the most unlikely contrast at a time when I felt terribly unsafe.
Our bond is strong and enduring. As such, I felt the news of Richard's passing deeply–so much so that I wrote a song in response–a song called 'Dream Well' that I sang at his memorial in Santa Barbara on June 9th. What an unspeakable honor.
Wherever I go, there I am.
I think...I'd imagined I'd find some kind of quiet respite once I'd moved–that my heart would remember how to breathe–yet no such solace has unfolded.
Part of it is the aforementioned emotional strain and upheaval–part of it is the inescapable reality of living within this compromised body. Though pain and I are already well-acquainted, my experience of it has shifted over these last couple months, reaching a whole new level of 'debilitating'.
Two days after my big move–on the 27th of April....I sneezed. Such a seemingly innocuous event–so unremarkable and commonplace. Except...this time, it was anything but.
This time–it was far more like a bolt of lightning striking my spine at T5, accompanied by a searing hot / freezing cold / ripping level 10 pain and the strangest feeling of being lifted off the ground.
Trust me...I never rate my pain above 8, even at its very worst. But this was beyond my comprehension–of a quality and volume unlike anything I'd yet known.
And it was only the beginning...
These last two months have been decidedly rough. I've had several sets of x-rays and a CT-scan–all inconclusive. The spasms floor me and I haven't yet identified a discernible pattern of triggers. Sometimes the intermittent spasms become one, unrelenting, sustained spasm that steals my breath. Those episodes are beyond my ability to endure.
A few weeks ago it was so bad my dear nibling (non-binary, plural term for niece/nephew) 
I've started a new form of physical therapy and met with a neurosurgeon last week. Next step is an MRI, which I feel moderately terrified about, considering how much metal is attached to my spine. The neurosurgeon assures me it'll be alright, so I suppose I'll just have to trust him.
MRI results notwithstanding, I'm left with ever more questions. It appears I have some kind of nerve-damage and/or injury–a thing that's incredibly difficult to see much less find the cause of. The hardest part is not knowing–having no definitive diagnosis–no structure within which to frame this new even more painful reality.
All I can do is pay closer attention–try not to aggravate the razor-clawed alien who seems so intent on digging his indelicate fingers deep into my back. Thankfully, I'm learning to recognize the 'pre-twinge'; that strangely subtle buzz that precedes the full-on spasm. I'm getting better at listening when I feel it...pausing....recalibrating just so....taking a slow, deep breath and–when I'm lucky–sidestepping the lightning bolt.
Somehow–against all odds–I make it through each day.
And this is how each new development in my painful pathology eventually becomes normalized. At first I afford it my full attention, exploring every angle, studying its patterns as I strive towards understanding and pray for eradication.
Little by little, I learn to subdue each new frequency–to tune it out...like the constant static of a nearby freeway. It's always there, vying for my attention, yet I choose to pretend I don't hear it.