Prowl

This space really does help.

But I grew weary of my own persistent distress. I could not see past it, could not get out from under it, and was sick of my own complaints. Like hearing one's own recorded voice droning and mumbled, too high and lacking resonance. I had one note. I had to hide for a while, stick my head into my socks.

Last night, I had an hour without pain of any kind. And I realized why I could only play one dull tune. I had not been truly free of that unacknowledged ache for... gods, I couldn't remember. And when I thought I was out of pain, it was only because I'd stopped seeing the accretion, like dust on the books or on top of the fridge.

I broke surface, after an intense therapy session early in the day, and an electro-stimulation device ever since, then my exercises in the evening. I stood there, with a golden wonderment, to announce to D and ND that I had absolutely no pain, gosh.

I wore the stim nine hours today, I was fine, it was good, I was fine, it was good, until the moment when, ok, ok, enough, get, GET IT OFF ME, GET IT OFFA ME, GETIT OFFAME! Well, internally, but I snagged a nurse for a quick break, and removed the stickers. Alone, I had a small come-apart. But I moved, all day, better than for a long time. Not strongly, but without the panic-inducing twinges either. Sore, still a long road, but the fog has lifted just enough for me to see the other mountain. Like the bear i'th'adage.

I hear the train wum-wum-whumping by out the open window, the hiss of traffic, and the internal sound of electric prickles and thrums, probing through, calling out the nerves to their duties. Moby makes no sound at all, but I spot him prowling past, and again, and back to check out the voices in the hall - ears perked, the staring at me, the hunch, the stalk, the bolt that says, "chase me." And so I must chase him until he flops down to say the game is over, he's won, and I must now pet his tum.