A Day with a Disengaged Dystonic Invisible Woman

The red orange characters on the small gray box resting on my dresser indicate that it is 1:00 a.m. I know better than to look at it with my eyes open further than a squint. I roll over in my bed in hopes that the illumination will not completely raise me from the semi-conscious sleep state...I lay trying to send myself back to a pleasant imagination of sleep. My body already warning me of the pain that has laid dormant waiting for me to acknowledge it. I resist the reach for the round and square, yellow and burgundy tablets. It is not time, it is not time...3:00 a.m. I repeat the exercise, this time I can not pretend to be in a state of semi-consciousness. My body has awoke and demands that the pain should stop, my stomach rolls with the sickness of round,square, yellow and burgundy poison that I had taken less than six hours ago. Every morning begs the choice of which I can find more bearable. I pause to feel if my feet, my faithful feet will hold me as I try to slowly stand. I stumble in the attempt and find my buttocks resting on a sliver of my bed side. I sit and wait, just a moment, and beg that they should deliver me again, to the bathroom, to the kitchen for a cup and saucer of mint tea to try to settle the disagreement, as my body holds me in contempt. It is now 4:30 am. I have settled into the Queen Anne chair that I had bought at a tag sale in the early onset of this war. Faded blue and white stripes welcome me with the tall back that will support me until the medicinal poison saturates the nerve endings that scream throughout my body. The tall back of the chair stained with a small tannish spot, oval in shape, that we have tried to remove with every remedy possible. Maybe it its meant to stay, maybe it is the talisman, held to the chair of the one before that finally rose to walk away, well and bright with light so that it could be passed on to another that would need the powerful magic woven fiber by fiber. I again sit and wait. Finally the intensity subsides, the feet are still resisting the duty of another day, I insist and stand limpidly. Small methodical stretches try to awaken and make peace with the opposing muscles. There will be no peace, forcibly I beg and curse each step to the little kitchen that has not welcomed a family whose love of food and glorious substances will not allow for all to bear presence. I wipe my eyes and reach for the large white and red cup printed with the word coffee in every language. Once filled with steaming water and mint it will allow me less trips to the tiny kitchen filled with cheap, bargain basement appliances that appeared the day we moved here. How odd I thought, since the model I was shown was completely different, filled with brushed steel fixtures, I think of this every time I enter this little room. It is now 5:30, I have wrapped my neck in the warmth of terrycloth filled with rice and scented with lavender, again forced to wait, begging the rage to stop. I sit in the talisman, waiting, waiting. I open my lap top and try to prepare my mind for the day, check my emails and my calender to make sure I haven't forgotten an early morning meeting, and then I wait some more. I am waiting for my body to straighten, to stop screaming, to enter the shower, waiting for another day of pretending that Dystonia is not part of my life, and more importantly to mold my appearance acceptable to the world that have judged me cruelly over the last twelve months. Everything I do is a micro movement of lesson in pain. I fight and still I fight, I will not go gently. It is 8:00 a.m. I am finally into the shower, but know already that I will be chastised. By the time I am finished and make the track to work it will most likely be around 9:15 ish. She will be sitting at the end of the long hall, looking out the glass window watching, maybe she will make a catchy comment, maybe it will be a glare, none the less it will recognizable chastisement. It has already been eight hours to take me to this point. I pull in to the parking lot in my usual manner, I gather my briefcase, one last sip of tea and slowly and methodically prepare the smile that will need to present itself by the time I punch my code into the door. Micro steps as I wonder how normal I look, how well do I look today? I haven't worn the cervical collar for at least six months now, however, no one can seem to forget it. Mindlessly they will ask at least every other time I pass if it feels good not to have to wear it, as they compliment me on how well I look. I step into the stale tan kitchen already the table is strewn with today's news. I refill my cup with water, and take in a deep breath, hoping the soulless has left her office just long enough for me to get into mine. I pretend she hasn't already checked eight or ten times if I was in yet. Eventually she will stop in, she will assume the tight anatomical position of her cerebrum assuming it looks inviting, she says's the same thing every morning, "Hi Kel," as she walks behind me to get a peek at how many programs I have open on my screen and so that she can ever so slightly touch my shoulders, I'm sure she sees it as her duty to accentuate warmth as her molars drip blood stained from her own flesh, not others. At least not others wise enough to know to wear talisman on their sleeve, and armor around there heart. Every morning it is an exercise in dignity for me, as I want to make a caterwaul of expletives so that she might leave my office never to return, never to touch my shoulders in such a perverse manner that leaves you hollow, barren like rape. I look off to the right of her shoulder to allow her to believe that I am aware of her presence without directly looking into her black eyes. She is satisfied.