Originally posted to my Facebook on August 2, 2026
Long before my brother took his own life at 16, my soul used to quote this (to me): "And my soul did long to be there." Reminding me that being drawn toward people that loved me - whose stories I'd read all my life - (namely, grandparents and ancestors), was for me an undeniable thing. It was (and is) incredibly real to me at times, that feeling, a sense of closeness. As if you could simply see through something, it would seem completely unremarkable that they'd be standing there with open arms, ready to hold you close (and figuratively never let go).
Popular culture describes some types of mental illness (or phases of it), as 'delusions of grandeur'. So, I do my best to remind myself there are two aspects of reality. We have hope, dreams, and aspirations which require real work, tenacity, and will power. And then we have willful escapism - typically in the form of temporary distraction - 'shopping therapy', literature, movies, etc. What most people, I guess, don't realize - is there is a third aspect, over which some/most people have no control - when the mind creates its own reality to deal with what the body (or mind) cannot.
I didn't romanticize my grandparents or ancestor's stories. OK, so I may have filled in a few embellishments when they appeared to be missing. If the stories failed to have much detail, I tried to imagine what their lives were like, with the written record as a bare bones framework for my version of their historical fiction docudrama. Yes, drama, because that is how I experience it (life). And my escapism into something that isn't my own 'drama' is so much easier.
I read a lot of fiction as a kid. Not surprised, are you. My parents both read to us - Dr. Seuss, P.D. Eastman, The tales of Brer Rabbit (where dad did voices). Imaginative illustrations and wonderful words you could get lost in. Helpful and harmless for young minds.
At what point I became vulnerable to this 'on beyond zebra' Escapism, I honestly don't know. I have theories. Two main ones that seem plausible (given what I understand about the medical realities - maybe one days we'll know better).
(1) I have an Autism Spectrum brain and some neural pathways flow easier than others. And uncoincidentally, those are the 'wolves' I also fed. I chose the path of least resistance. Reading and intellectualism feels safe - and possibly I get a dopamine hit (?). Growing up, we talked a lot around the dinner table. My parents and siblings are incredibly gifted, so basking in dinner table conversation, as a spectator, and occasionally a well meaning participant (think the runt puppy/piglet running alongside his brothers & sisters just trying to keep up) - it was my life as I knew it. And I saw nothing really wrong with it . . . except for the fear.
(2) I have a virus program running in my subconscious. Whether it is a biological reality - or that is the name and face I put on it, because I need a visual. My sister told me Autistic people think in pictures, after seeing a movie about Temple Grandin. I guess I didn't realize that isn't everyone's reality. You (normal people) don't create pictures for words in your head to clarify understanding, and you don't occasionally catch yourself engaging in echolalia (in your mind, not out-loud, verbally).
(2-b) When this particular brain-computer sub-routine is running, and my body immunity gets low, it starts creating (or looking for?) the new reality. I haven't quite figured this one out - it takes a few times of the circumstances happening in different environments and at different occasions for me to recognize the pattern for what it is.
(2-c) Something happened that I do not remember. It is entirely possible it is a space in the figment of my imagination that I've created, or allowed for, to explain what otherwise doesn't make sense. I imagine it as a road construction zone with lots of barricades and cones, possibly around a sink-hole, where my mind doesn't allow itself to go, in order to protect me from falling back in the traumatic memory of whatever that experience is.
(2-c-1) There is some basis for this theory of buried trauma. When I was very little - perhaps 2 or 3, a large dog, about my own height at the time, cornered me on our porch. So, I had railings on either side of me and a dog barking in my face in front of me, and no where to escape. I have no memory of that. I only know it happened because my parents told me about it years later. I didn't know that was why I was scared of dogs - into my teens - literally petrified - without explanation (and irrational). I chalked it up to a character weakness I was meant to overcome. Silly girl.
(2-c-2) It doesn't happen anymore. Most of my school age years were plagued with a dream. I associated it with the hallway in my grandparents home - but it could have been any hallway - there are no distinguishing features - the carpet is tan. There are no doorways exiting the hallway close to me, which doesn't correspond with the set up of my grandparents home. The dream is, there is a snake between me and further down the hall, where the bedroom doors enter/exit. I'm relatively small, and my voice doesn't work. Try as I might, I can't cry out. I open my mouth and silence. So my dad can't hear me. And this goes on . . . and on . . . until I wake up.
I would love to be those people who have a perpetually optimistic nature. Something about my venn diagram sub-culture actually instructs us about being optimistic (having hope). So, when I struggle, I feel the struggle as well as the 'shame' of not measuring up . . . or I used to.
My sister is fierce (all my sisters are, in their own way). My older sister is verbally fierce - in a good way. She states the truth, unabashedly and unashamedly. And gosh it feels good to be there in the protection of that when you are timid and shy. You don't have to summon or create the forcefield of spiritual energy for yourself, you just stand in someone else's . . . . (ok, personal revelation on my life just occurred while typing) . . . distracted . . . and (buffering . . . ).
I think there may be a movie where the dialogue goes 'where can I get a little doubt and uncertainty?' . . . maybe Apollo 13 during the medical mutiny scene. Sometimes I just want some brutal honesty about the reality of the situation, because that is how I'm experiencing it. And stop sugar coating that gooey spiritualism all over it, because sometimes life really . . . . (fill in the blank).
So, between those places - where my soul longs to be (as in a fairy story), which I perceive is a very real place where spirits go while awaiting something 'next' and when life really stinks (yes, and that other word too), sometimes my brain takes a vacation.
And if it hadn't ever happened before, I probably wouldn't fear it. Or run from it with the energy of trying to escape a black hole that is simultaneously swallowing everything around me. I might walk this blissful path with that PollyAnna "Molly-Mormon" outlook, semi-appreciating the rain showers for their ability to bring on the blossoms. Losing yourself though, and each additional time it happens, when you recognize the recuperation occurs during the breaths you take at the next flat place on the mountain. Sometimes, you begin to fear the mountain itself, and life in general. Because you aren't aware whether you have any control over whatever that is or when it happens. So, you just give mighty thanks for the uneventful days, and seek only what is safe.
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