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Which still-alive falsehoods about your disability no longer make you angry?

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Lies I Tell Myself

Name: Arlene Herring
Email: ekelks@aol.com
Date: 21 Jun 2000
Time: 06:58:24

Story

From the minute I wake in the morning, I hear voices telling me to get up and go to the bathroom. In the bathroom, the voices want music. "I can't pee with music!" I shout, sometimes, angry that again, first thing in the morning, I am once again fighting with myself.

Though I would still like to murder the ER doctor who saved my life by giving me ciproflaxin for double-pneumonia, a drug that turned out to be anathema for people with MS, though I still react angrily to the demands of the voices, I have lived with them for almost 4 years, day in, day out, and, despite myself, have grown fond of them. They have different personalities, various likes and dislikes, a wide range of frequency -- though they're not so good at modulation. They couldn't, for example, read poetry in my head the way I can read it out loud. That they repeat what I think, echoing me as a child learning a language might, that they interrupt my reading to ask what words mean -- all this tells me that I have a classroom of kids playing in my skull. I talk to them, they talk back to me. We have our own, very special chatroom.

Since no neurologist or psychiatrist seems to be able to agree on the genesis of the problem -- MS affecting the auditory nerves, allergic reaction -- I've yet to find a medication that works. And until this psych stuff evaporates, no doctor will treat my MS progression.

This is because they don't want me to become suicidal, and true, there are moments when I can think of nothing better than to fling myself out the window -- but these thoughts are lies. Threats I make to the voices -- "Shut up, or I'm jumping," are just as empty as "shut up, or I won't watch Rosie O'Donnell today."

Of course, I'm not going to jump out the window. First, I doubt I have the strength to jump anywhere anymore. Second, why should I stop watching Rosie when I enjoy her so much?

Third, as I sit here and peck out this tale with my one not-too-trembly hand, my voices are quiet. They want me to write. If I can write this, why can't I go back to doing what I always wanted to do? Write a poem, a story, a novel, a work of great art?

I've always been smart and very stubborn. So, yes, I think first thing tomorrow I'll go back to work on a story I started about my mom, who died 3 years ago, and take it from there.

Copyright © 2000 Arlene Herring. All rights reserved.

Last changed: April 14, 2008

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