The Experiences of Steven

Emptying my cup

And so I found myself lying in bed, just past 11:30 pm, moments ago. I struggled with my pillow to support my terrible, stiff and sore neck, no longer wondering why it hurt. I’d come to terms, realizing that this was no more than my panic disorder, a problem I’d thought was long gone. I was wrong.

I lay there in pain, thinking. It had to be the situation with my dad that was causing this, that had pushed me over an edge I had so long ago found ways to keep wide berth of. You see, he had a stroke last week.

His condition is good now, albeit his being ninety-three years old adds a bit of an edge to the situation. Still, he remains independent.

I, living the closest, just thirty-five or forty minutes drive, am the front line and the bottom line against all problems that may arise. I’ve no complaint regarding this. I’d not have moved away even were it not for him. Yet such trivia matters little at this moment. What I believe is happening to me is all too familiar but at the same time new, as the disorder always is when it manifests.

What I believe troubles me now is knowing that I must confront him regarding his wishes, his will, his papers, and power of attorney should something like this recur and recur badly next time.

No one wishes to confront death or disability but especially not that of a loved one. And confronting it hand in hand with said loved one makes it all the less tolerable. Still, I look not upon it as dealing with an impending doom but as a second chance to deal with a bullet that we, this time, have dodged. Were dad to have been badly disabled we, my brothers and I, would have been blindsided by our own lack of preparedness. Perhaps he will live into his hundreds. We don’t know. But we’d best get it together for whatever is to come. And we’d best do it soon.


Backing up a bit, as I lay in my bed minutes ago, I accepted my physical pain as a result of my panic disorder and my impending conflict— in that I must discuss these things with dad. His condition, his stroke, the reaper himself is breathing down my neck at this very moment overshadowing all as I await just one more conversation with my brother in Florida. Stepping on toes will not do. Then I will talk with dad. These are my thoughts now, these are my demons.

So with this all said, what is there to do for myself, for my disorder?

Well, after all this time it isn’t that I haven’t learned. And it isn’t that I haven’t any tools at my disposal.

A wise man once told me that feelings and stress are like water filling a cup, and that cup has a hole in the bottom to let the pressure out. But sometimes the pressure fills the cup faster than it can run out of the bottom. When the cup runs over, this is when our anxiety can get the better of us. This wise man also told me of his son, who often expressed himself by writing. As I thought on this wise man, who incidentally is known as ‘The Sea Snake King’ a man whom can be found buried deep inside of my own poetry, this notion occurred to me, “writing—” It occurred to me that for better or worse, I can write.

I thought of the Sea Snake King’s cup and of my stress. I thought of how my disorder attacks me when I falter and bury my feelings instead of letting them out. ‘Out’ not ‘in’, this is the answer. But how?

I thought of women and how they outlive us, it is said because they can cry. They have ways of emptying their cups, that men do not readily embrace. I thought of crying, but had no desire to do so. I thought, as I lay in the darkness of my own bedroom, that I must find a way to empty my cup. If the hole in the bottom is not enough, then another should be bored into the vessel, somehow, someway.

Writing! This was the epiphany that the Sea Snake King would suggest were he there. So I rose, grabbing for my sweat pants and t-shirt.

I stepped atop an annoying Happy Meal toy as I made my way toward the stairs in the dark. I paused wondering what the hell was making the faint beeps and chirps. Deciding that it could not wake my wife with its batteries in the state they seemed to be in, I ventured on dressing as I stepped.

Finding the first floor where my laptop resides, I poured old coffee into a cup, overfilling it of all things to do. I dumped the excess and put the cup in the microwave. Striking the thirty second button twice either from laziness or eagerness to type, I heated the coffee.

I cursed silently realizing I’d left my glasses in my dark bedroom. I ascended and padded through the darkness , knowing the way. I felt for my spectacles and grasped them without incident. Having made it to the bedside without stomping on any toys, I once more found the chirping thing under my foot. This time I bent and retrieved it, fleeing the room and thinking on utterly destroying the beastly device. Only when I’d escaped my bedroom did I realize what it was. Bored by it already, I set it aside and descended the stairs. I gathered up my coffee, putting in creamer and deciding it was too hot to drink. Then I sat down and typed all of this, with the hope that letting go of my emotion, fully grasped or not, fully realized or not, would help empty my cup.

I have to talk to dad about his future, about all of our futures. I have to talk to him about what he wants, what is best for him, what to do if he cannot tell me. It will be a painful conversation, perhaps several conversations. I can tell you that it is painful now, at this very moment, as my disorder has decided to attack my neck and shoulders. I suppose, perhaps, my mind knows when I’m enduring too much and tries to disable me from endeavoring further into harm’s way. Maybe this is what happens, maybe not. What I do know is that I’ve suffered pain in my belly, my back, my arms, my head, and so on— I’ve suffered everything from pain to madness and relied on medication until I could no longer tolerate the side effects. It was learning not to overfill my cup that had liberated me until now.

Why the disorder chooses symptoms that have nothing to do with the mind, or the experiences that lead to my stress remains a mystery. All that I know is that anything from a belly ache to random excruciating agony can be generated by nothing more than allowing the Sea Snake King’s cup to spill over. Like water inundating the circuits of some electronic device, the wires of my mind and body go haywire when the stress spills over. So I shall use my willingness to write to bore another hole in the bottom of my proverbial cup and release the stress that threatens to consume me.

Special thanks to the Sea Snake King.



Addendum:
It struck me later that this entry though rife with realism suddenly displays a title and name such as 'Sea Snake King'. Then thinking back on my own allusion toward madness within the entry, I worry that I might indeed seem a bit 'off' to the reader. Well, rest assured dear reader that the terms 'Sea Snake King' and 'madness' are both quite symbolic in nature. The 'madness' referring to little more than the manifestation of a panic attack, and the 'Sea Snake King' being a friend who would associate the symbolic 'Sea Snake' with an event shared between us. Cryptically, my friend then knows it is he I am discussing when I use this nomenclature.

Sincerely,
the completely sane,
Fhionnuisce