BeachBlondeChic

Storytime?. Nah, not exactly. So, as I climbed all too wearily into my belated, daily shower, I was listening to a throwback track, remastered, from Nelly Furtado: “Say It Right” ft Timbaland (2006). Other versions of this particular tune not ft Timbaland's vocals have an entirely different (bland) vibe, altogether. I digress ... Part-way through my second shampoo rinse (and right before I also stealthily managed to knock my conditioner out of my shower stall, far beyond my reach), an angry male voice cut through my opened, screened bathroom window, “F**k you, you ugly, fat bitch!. I'm so done with you and you pulling your skanky sh-t!” Quickly followed up with several muffled thuds, and then by a liberal, staccato scattering of what sounded a whole lot like shattering glass. Mmm-kay. Then, it was as if the entire surrounding apartment complex paused briefly, inwardly inhaled and reset itself, like nothing bad at all had just happened. I figured, intuitively, that this was considered to be a perfectly reasonable standard of behavior for around here.

As far as my unique brand of normal is concerned, during the past four months, I've had so many ongoing contacts with law enforcement (including having a uniformed cop standing in what was my former kitchen all morning, for day after day, after day). As a result, my conflict barometer has been skewed, shifted and reset quite considerably. Perhaps, permanently. That still leaves a lot of residual hesitancy, uncertainty and impermanence in my life situation.

All manner of my sundry and various household crap managed to somehow get itself delivered to me, this morning. Not a karmic reference. Nor divine intervention. Delivery guy certainly earned his dollars, as well as some major sweat equity, to boot. My stairs don't play around that way, for sure. Now that universal masking mandates are lurking back on my immediate horizon again, I can keep my invisibility for a little longer. Speech/Language Therapy came by, too. Yet more memory work. For adulting – only vastly pureeed and pared down. For simplification, as well as for rememberance purposes. Since I'm not usually the universe's most patient person, it's also not too far of a stretch into this kind of snore-scale material, before I'm very nearly jumping out from underneath my own skin out of sheer irritation and frustration. Suddenly, there's an abundance of mostly busy work that still has to be completed. “Study the twelve words listed below. Look for similarities”. That kind of a word picture. That. Apparently, putting 'this' back together again with 'that' will all take some more time. I've rarely viewed time as being my best friend. So, I'll just have to sit back and take in an unpleasant, yet entirely necessary dose of STFU. With multiple college degrees, I've endured my fair share of assigned and suggested reading. Zero novelty in that.

Physically, no particular workouts in mind. My favorite fall-back is some fairly straightforward stretches. I'm feeling both restless and peevish. Likely an unwanted side effect of my being caged up like a cat for far, far longer than is considered to be good for me. Consequences of living in hiding, in effect. I'm not the one needing constantly revised, court ordered behavior modifications, but what else can I tell you. Or do?. My writing has become somewhat of an escape hatch for me at the moment.

Not considered how, why and when writing has historically been a part of my life. Yet, it has. In so many, different, contrasting forms and forums. Copywriting for broadcasting (radio) media. Publication in nationwide print media. Grant application writing. Graduate school research thesis editing in electronic engineering, and in health sciences. Shannon's Theory of Chaotic Crypotography, contrasted with Discursive Analysis. Wrote online articles on what was once the sister website of Salon. Now's a far cry. Gotta start over again somehow and somewhere, right?.

3 days sneakily passed me by. I'd say drifted, except that stating same would deny the evolving train-wreck that now characterizes my present life. My mornings begin entirely unaturally, with a thundering, full-blown panic attack, from the second that I open my eyes, with me immediately realizing that my new day now beckons. Rather than relaxing and imagining coffee (which I don't drink anyway), I call a DA's office. I recognize the person who's taking my call, today, but they aren't authorized enough for who I'm looking for. Next, I call the Criminal Court, with case reference close by. Court minutes allude to a procedural presentation of adversarial-style facts, but purposefully blank out any colorful, speculative f**kery. Most everything can't be answered, today. Hypothetically speaking, works. Up to a point. Still, I'm exercising my right to ask for information. It's just not enough. Justice frequently, wrongfully infers some emphatic sense of closure. Begs for a nonexistent peace. Next, I mull these, latest, legal developments over, while also completing a sequence of my daily repetitive, household tasks. Coincidentally, they are also my 'homework' for my Speech, Language, and Cognitive Therapy. Pattern recognition. Consistent adherence to sequences. Attention to multiple, otherwise seemingly small details. Repetition. Recall. Rewind. Rinse. Repeat. Redux. After that, Physical Therapy. Rep after rep. An old knee injury flare up presents new pain limitations. If I had my personal preference, I'd be back on a treadmill as much as possible at the moment. Because...access.

Clinically, on my future docket, there's an MRI scan of my head and neck, yet more bloodwork, and then a follow up appointment with my brain injury specialist. Acquainted myself with dismantling my rollator and shipping both it and myself simultaneously up and down a steep flight of stairs. That medical machinery has a bit of awkwardness to it's mechanics. Tight, but that's due to it being new, is all. Not especially heavy. I was gonna bust out of the house like a bandit with it in tow, tonight, but a friend offered me a ride to town at the last minute, and my ass has gotten overly lazy, lately. Besides, today definitely wasn't a day intended for random explorations of my neighborhood. If I seem lethargic and indifferent to my having to do all of these ADL's (Activities of Daily Living), it's likely because I am. I have an appetite, so I eat, and then I drift alternately somewhere on a continuum of intense nausea, and then just randomly puking up bile. Similar situation with my disrupted internal temperature control since my TBI.

No, really, this half of a week, has proven itself beyond all reasonable self doubt to be quite the memorable month, already. It's been asked, and hopefully my Case Manager RN will bring and administer The Vaccine to me. In my new housing. I'm now existing in isolation anyway. Formally, witness relocation. Formerly, another anonymous nobody. There's (still) my neighbors for company. Sort of. Like the delightful downstairs tenant who 'thought' that trying my front door and then breaking the glass of their own ranch-slider front door was an excellent solution to them “losing their keys” at 2 in the a.m. and the perfectly logical alternative to them actually calling someone. Uh-huh.

I pictured a rainbow/You held it in your hand/Nothing compares ... A longtime friend of mine (from a 35 year matured friendship) recently, gently suggested that I try to start up my writing, again. “It might help you”, they said. TNT for my ailing, TBI'd (Traumatic Brain Injured), shaken brain?. My username or handle here: BeachBlondeChic is a shadowy, wispy, long-forgotten reference to my former lofty and far more youthfully ambitious, highly internally driven, intensely competitive self. An entire, drifted hemisphere away, in the midst of my all consuming, intensely frustrating, scattered brain fog, as well as absent, exiled, expat geographic location. I continue to adore and dream of my 'bucket' beach-escapes -Bondi and Tama. Far, far away from 'home', still. So, how am I to know any differently?. Like telling night from day. Nowhere else for me to go. The musical soundtrack in my background to my particular moment writing here is the cascading, intensely uplifting vocals of Loreen: “Euphoria” (2012).

Medical professionals in my current care 'team' persistently inquire of me, since I'm actually still here, staunchly inhabiting my own mortal flesh and bones, if I remember the exact date when the whole crux of this personal, mass disintergration began. I do. It's all that I am really certain of anymore. 3/15/2021. Akin to an epitaph marker, stenciled into my self, and stitched to my shabby soul. It's been my darkest, furtherest fall. For sure. Suspended in a drifting twilight sleep, of sorts, rather than being in a constant, oppressive coma.

Abnormal CT scan. Severe concussion. Grade 3 whiplash injury. Ongoing post concussion syndrome symptoms. Of the cognitive, executive functioning type, apparently. So I'm told. I'm in my head somewhere. Either that, or I'm too far down into the depths of some upscale variation on a very unique brand of rabbit hole that most junkies can only wish to find themselves miraculously hitting via a single vein.

I worry that this is too much inner destruction to come back from, again. Having defied medical odds time and time again, I know enough to understand the depth and gravity of my impending fight. I'm feeling extremely unsteady. I'm filled with trepidation and a lot of unknowns are competing for the weight of my attention. This hour is late. Already. Invariably.

By stark contrast, my morning awakenings are a full-on panic attack, resplendent with requisite a thundering heart, a papery dry mouth, leaving me gasping for air, hands twisted up in muted surrender.

My day has now been quite simply just enough. Because it has to be.