Imaginarium 3
Page 30
Subject presents as polite and reasonable, though with little emotional affect and micro-periods of disassociation. Prescribed regimen of Cymbalta (side-effects may include drowsiness, blurred vision, lightheadedness, strange dreams, constipation, fever/chills, headache, increased or decreased appetite, tremor, dry mouth, nausea, increased sweating and blood pressure, fatigue and reduced energy). Has agreed to daily yoga practice of roughly sixty to ninety minutes, plus guided meditation, both administered through Skype. Has agreed to participate in phobia-management exercises, and keep a recovery blog. Fees pre-paid in full.
Personal notes: With sufficient effort on her part, I see no reason why subject should not both make a full physical recovery and stabilize her phobia, eventually helping to develop a participatory management protocol which will allow her to graduate from Shumate House by next year at the latest. Nevertheless, given her history, I recommend a tight check routine—three days on, two days off, repeat—in order to ascertain whether or not Cymbalta is the best drug strategy, as well as an equally strict policy of nondisclosure about what happened to the last three subjects who occupied Apartment Five.
corbrayml@monitoru.net Just checking to see you received the Hendricks IR. Any questions?
rostovy@monitoru.net Yes, thanks. So what did happen?
corbrayml@monitoru.net When?
rostovy@monitoru.net To the previous tenants.
corbrayml@monitoru.net I don’t think that’s relevant.
rostovy@monitoru.net Then why did you mention it?
corbrayml@monitoru.net Feel free to do your own research, Yelena; I look forward to your report. All best.
From the official Shumate House introductory booklet, Shumate—Where Respite Makes Recovery:
What sets Shumate’s therapeutic facility apart from every other is our specific brand of total support-system immersion. By offering a well-rounded team of live-in, on-site care workers who follow the “Shumate Method” (first developed by Dr. Jerrold Shumate in 1979, to treat post-traumatic stress disorder amongst relatives of the Canadian members of Jim Jones’ People’s Temple cult), we guarantee our occupants a safe haven where privacy and anonymity are equally sacrosanct—a place of retreat and reconciliation where no one, no matter their range of symptoms, is ever considered unable to participate in planning their own recovery. . . .
Therapy Blog of Thordis Hendricks, July 25, 2012 (11:45 AM):
Timer on. Start.
It takes about a month to settle in anywhere, let alone get used to a new drug—if that’s not a truism, then it should be. So now we’re three weeks in, two days into the next seven, nothing but yoga and chores and blogging, pre-packaged food that comes by the close-wrapped tray, long baths with lavender for relaxation, changing my dressings, taking my pills. Each day ticks away in increments, slow-seeping, like that inescapable metallic taste at the back of my tongue, still there no matter how often I spit.
No anxiety, no worry: That’s good, right? No OCD twitches. Last night I noticed an actual ring inside the bathtub—a smeared grey scum of skin-cells, something I’d have to scrub at to get off. And I didn’t. Didn’t think about how I was stewing in my own dirt, like some horrible soup; just sat there and let the water lap up over it, out of sight, out of mind.
No pleasure, though. Anhedonia, just without the usual feeling bad about not feeling good. And my sex drive completely gone, too, but I expected that. Not like it matters much, in here.
I’m amused to note that the guided meditation portion of my sessions takes place while in shavasana, the pose most instructors usually strain not to call “corpse posture” (and Yelena’s no different, in this respect). I remember hearing about an existentialist yoga class they offered in Germany, pretty much corpse posture from beginning to end, which focused on accepting death rather than trying to distract yourself from it: “Your body will die. Your body will be a corpse. You can discard your body yet still exist. The signal cannot be stopped. . . .” Sort of soothing, especially if you repeat it so often it devolves into a mushy whirr of consonant-click and vowel-sounds, with no single part more significant than the whole: Ommmmm, just let it all gooooo.
But yeah, I can see how that probably seems just a tad morbid to concentrate on, as a mantra, especially when you’re dealing with a person who still has trouble picking stuff up with her left hand, because dominant hand automatically cuts deeper. So instead, Yelena just talks about breathing and tells me to keep my eyes closed, which I mostly don’t, because part of being a reasonable adult is making your own damn decisions and sticking to them. Lie there staring up at the ceiling (white stucco, each tiny plaster stalactite’s shadow a grey-black dot) ’til my eyes unfocus enough that it becomes some sort of infinite, negative-flipped space-scape, a white void pocked with black hole stars. . . .
(And think, sometimes: If only I had the right sort of charts, the right kind of database to work with, I might be able to figure out where that is, up there. If I only knew the math.
(But that’s monkey-mind, right, Yelena? Chatter. Better to shut it out, be in the moment. This dying moment, dying from one second into the next, never the same, always the same. This moment that only goes, forever, no matter what you do or don’t, and never comes again.)
I don’t dream, but last night I had a doozy . . . so clear, so detailed. Except those details were utterly foreign to me, as though they’d been broadcast straight into my subconscious from somebody else’s, detached but specific, a litany of intent. Should’ve taken notes, because all it is now is a general impression, but I remember thinking: Yelena will love this. Finally, something worth writing about.
So do you? Enjoy these entries, I mean. One of us should.
And . . . done, in time. Timer off.
rostovy@monitoru.net Interesting stuff. You really should try to close your eyes when you meditate, though.
hendricksnox@shumatehouse.com guess so, just
hendricksnox@shumatehouse.com when i do i get vertigo
rostovy@monitoru.net That’s not good. Do you want me to send a doctor?
hendricksnox@shumatehouse.com maybe. dont know. maybe its not real vertigo, just
hendricksnox@shumatehouse.com dont know going to sleep now ok
rostovy@monitoru.net Okay, that’s probably best. Write down your dreams for me next time, all right, Thordis?
rostovy@monitoru.net Thordis?
Yelena Rostov, Notes:
Last three occupants of Shumate House Apt. #5 (in chron. order) = Marie Bissionette, Charles H. Siemanczski, Lloyd Lin Kuan-tai.
All 3 deceased.
Bissionette judged suicide, Siemanczski accidental overdose, Lin suicide. Siemanczski’s personal physician disagreed with coroner’s verdict—said there was no way his patient could take that much without noticing side effects/stopping before death, but no conclusive evidence either way.
Verdict might also have to do with fact that other 2 were found with plastic bags over heads but Siemanczski wasn’t. Possibly removed by accident during death-throes and just not found during investigation, mislabelled as trash.
Other possibility deliberate misdirection. But what would be the point of
Understandable why Corbray doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t say much for Shumate Method.
Why/how would he think Thordis would ask about it, though?
Does it make sense 2 (poss. 3) people would all choose same strategy? They didn’t know each other. Timing alone makes that impossible.
Overdose/bag method pushed by Final Exit euthanasia rights activists amongst others—cult suicides, as per Heaven’s Gate.
But people do those in teams.
(“Team-mindedness”?)
Therapy Blog of Thordis Hendricks, July 29, 2012 (2:32 PM):
It took a while to figure out what the revealed shape of my life reminded me most of, but I stumbled on it, eventually; Google is our friend, even in the tin
iest of possible doses. It was an oubliette.
An oubliette’s a kind of dungeon accessible only from a hatch in a high ceiling, basically impossible to exit without outside help. The word comes from the same root as the French oublier, “to forget,” because it was used for prisoners their captors simply wanted to disappear. Some oubliettes added the twist of being built on a shelf, a steeply sloping tunnel leading down to the moat or the sea—so you had the choice of letting yourself either slowly starve, or just to slip further down and drown.
The term’s also used to refer to ice formations over lakes, or other large bodies of water. As ice crystals form and air is introduced by the movement of the tides, secret tunnels hollow themselves out under the ice, rendering it treacherous. Prone to give way all of a sudden, a grim surprise, and plunge you over your head into water so cold it burns.
Oubliette, jaunty oubliette. And this place, Apartment Five, Shumate House—just a more comfortable version of the same? A place to be parked out of sight, out of mind, ‘til I’m all safely re-calibrated and refurbished . . . ready to take my place in the world as it is, rather than the world as I thought it was? Ready for public consumption?
Never let it be said I mind having somewhere to pull my head in, for a while; it’s kind of nice to have a safe little hidey-hole, I guess, when the open spaces outside remain so goddamn scary. Would be, at least, if I didn’t know that somebody else holds the keys—or if I had any sort of idea how long this particular set of adjustments is going to take, exactly, either.
No one likes to be forgotten.
On the other hand, the anhedonia my cocktail deals out mainly serves to make me wonder why anyone would struggle so hard to be remembered, to stay alive; how anyone could want so badly to prolong this particular . . . stasis, this awful pause between nothing and nothing. Because oh sure, I’m safe in here from the worst of it, the truly painful blankness, where input slips away until everything becomes equally hollow and sharp and unbearable—but so what? How much, exactly, is a life without extremes worth, when all’s said and done? No depression, no joy. Just grey, marching grey, simplest of all possible forward motions at barely impulse speed, like algae. Existing, not living.
But okay, enough, I didn’t forget: write down my dreams. Here’s one.
I dreamt I found a closet in that short little hallway between my bedroom and the living room, the one we both know backs onto Apartment Seven, which means there couldn’t possibly be a door there. So of course, I opened it. And inside it was full of what seemed like miles on miles of snarled yarn, knotted in on itself, all dirty and wet and vile-smelling. Yet in I went, clearing a path like Lucy through the wardrobe, the yarn-mounds getting progressively colder ‘til they iced up, froze almost solid, and I had to tear at them with my numbing hands, kicking myself free. And at last it gave way, became another doorway opening onto . . . nothing. Empty space, star-speckled, with a wind howling past me; a night sky too far away from any sun to ever see real daylight.
After which I heard a voice, some girl, and though I already knew it was a dream this only confirmed it, because it didn’t scare me at all that I felt as though I recognized it. Saying: They call it the Kuiper Belt. Think it’s a nothing place, all dead debris and endless absence, but they’re wrong, so wrong. With that little trembly note in her voice that you get when you’re so happy you’re close to weeping. Tiamat non delenda est! How could it be? It only moved—Translated (I heard the capital), like we’ll be. It’s real—more real, more beautiful than any agreed-upon construct in this whole “real” world. Perfect, like we’ll be perfect. Perfected. Perfection. The ur-planet. The ur-.
And everyone else will end up here, now, instead. No Heaven or Hell. Just a swirling knot of souls, too tangled to untie themselves without tearing, so far gone that by the time they come back ‘round again the earth’ll already be inside the Sun. Everyone who’s not us, sooner or later. Everyone who’s not tuned to the Signal . . .
Which is what? I wanted to ask, desperately. But even as I strung the words, let alone sent them dropping to my tongue, it already had me; I was inside it, moving through it while it moved through me, all echoing clicks and breath and liquid twittering, keystroke static on an empty station. Classic SETI shit, Translating as it went. A cruel brightness that slapped me back down into the waking world again, even as it simultaneously revealed said “world” to be nothing but skin on howl, a burning scrim, the mere and flattest parody of whatever it was meant to conceal—
So, anyhow: Thanks for the cheap trip, Yelena, like I wasn’t already feeling . . . nothing enough, already.
Put that on your expanded Cymbalta symptoms list, and smoke it.
Yelena Rostov, Notes:
Kuiper Belt: The outer rim of the Solar System, a belt of asteroids and small bodies; includes Pluto’s orbit. Dreams of dark empty places common symbol of depression—may be good sign that T.’s seeing herself separate from it, rather than in it.
Tiamat: Babylonian dragon-goddess, slain by hero-god Marduk.
Interesting connection to Kuiper Belt—’70s pop pseudoscience said there was another planet (Tiamat, natch) where Belt is now, way-station for aliens; Belt’s supposed to be its remains, post-destruction.
(Like Chariots of the Gods? Grill T. on her reading before coming here.)
Tiamat non delenda est: Riff on Cartago delenda est? “Tiamat must not be destroyed”?
“The Signal”: ?
Handwritten “dream diary” of Thordis Hendricks:
July 31, 2012:
Dreamed I was living in a house, old & decrepit & dust-encrusted, & spent the whole day cleaning it. But when I had to muck out the basement, while I was down there I found a door in the floor & underneath the house a whole other house, equally dirty. So I went down there to clean up that one too & in its basement I found another door, another house, & so on. Smaller & dirtier & further down all the time, & they never stopped. I woke up before I found the bottom.
August 1, 2012:
Dreamed I was pregnant & had been for maybe a year & the doctor wanted to induce me but instead of going to the hospital we did it right here, in the living room. & then I started to feel sick & thought I was going to puke but instead I just doubled up & my stomach came open like a zipper, & inside there was just dust, red dust. & it all spilled out on the floor so I clawed at my own neck so badly I pulled my jugular open & bled to death, I could feel it happening. But I didn’t care.
August 2, 2012:
A knock at the door. It’s a package & I open it without thinking. A photo-frame with one tiny hole in it, like an ikon, black magic Advent window. An eye, peering out. So I slide off the back & find out it’s a picture of me laid upside-down, staring eye transmuted to blank terror simply by being reversed.
August 3, 2012:
Nothing.
August 4, 2012:
Nothing.
August 5, 2012:
Just floating again, out in the black on an orbital track so elliptical I knew I’d reach the thinnest part of my gravitational field & just slip off like a bead from a thread, go drifting away into nothing & never stop unless I hit something.
August 6, 2012:
Dreamed I was a horse with bones braided through my mane being ridden by something gigantic, this crushing weight, faster & faster, being ridden to death. Every breath a razorblade turning in my chest.
August 7, 2012:
Trapped under a car. I could feel oil dripping on me, maybe gas, or maybe I’d wet myself. That weird smell of hot rubber and dusty asphalt. & at any time the car might collapse further, something might spark, I might burn alive, but I don’t think I was scared. I could hear the Signal far off in the distance, getting stronger.
August 8, 2012:
Corpse posture meditation, & I felt like I was going to blend into the floor, all heavy & cold & hot at the same time, every part of my body ticking with life I couldn’t control
. & then I was standing up & looking down on myself, & I looked so good empty, so perfected. Transitioned. But then I started to rot, & then I was melting, I then I was gone. Just the mat left behind.
August 9, 2012:
I was a man who wanted to be a woman, or maybe a woman who’d been a man. But one way or the other I was bad & wrecked now, broken & I knew it, & there was nothing I could do about it, because whatever choice I’d made was the wrong one. So I took a knife from the kitchen & started cutting parts of myself off anywhere I could & eating them, hoping that would help.
August 10, 2012:
Nothing.
August 11, 2012:
Nothing.
August 12, 2012:
Dreamed I was up on a hill & looked down into the valley & there were three people standing there with bags over their head, clear plastic bags, so I could see their faces when they all turned & looked up at me, but I didn’t recognize any of them. & I think they were trying to tell me something but it was too far away & I couldn’t hear them because of the bags & then I just woke up.
August 13, 2012:
Dreamed I looked in the mirror & I was somebody else, & then that person told me to go get ready because we were going on a long trip together & pretty soon it would be time to leave. But instead of packing or anything we just sat down in the living room & kissed each other & said goodbye. & then we both gave each other pills & we took them at the same time & then everything went dark & that was the end.
Yelena Rostov, Notes:
Some dreams seem specifically parallel to previous tenants—Bissionette (post-partum depression with self-harm), Siemanczski (Vicodin abuse after vehicular injury), Lin (body-image dysmorphia with false transgender self-diagnosis)—even though no way T. could know about any of that. But pattern v. clear, impossible to ignore.