Dear Debbie and Melissa,

Jasmine tells me that you’ve been concerned for me, and I just wanted to write and tell you that I’m now out of the hospital and, as best I can tell, doing well.  Thank you for your thoughts and prayers; I’m not one to believe in supernatural phenomena, but I can decisively say that it has been wonderful to know that others are giving me some thought.

            As best I can tell, I have a very rare, very strange illness.  For periods of time I will act oddly, and subsequently I will ‘come to,’ in a sense, without any memory of the odd actions, the strange things I say and do.

            The picture is complicated by the fact that I am an alcoholic and a drug addict.  Very often, in these black-out moments, I will drink or use some kind of drug.  This happened regularly – I think – which is why this strange dissociation was not discovered earlier.  We all assumed I was simply blacking out from the booze or the drugs.

            I am told there is no solid treatment for my condition.  I was put on a mild dose of an anti-psychotic drug, and told to go into intensive therapy.  The drug seems to make my anxiety a great deal worse; and neither appears to be stopping this phenomenon.

            I am at a loss as to what to do.  I feel deeply ashamed and embarrassed, especially by the degree to which this illness forces me to impinge upon other people’s good will.  I am close to finishing law school, but now deeply concerned that I should not practice law, as my illness may gravely affect other people’s rights.  After an unpleasant but blessedly brief divorce, I have a new girlfriend whom I care about deeply.  Yet I am sorely worried about all that I put her through because of this illness.

            My faith is worn thin.  What was once a proud and strong edifice now seems a slight, papery wall.  I find it difficult to believe in a loving God, try as I might.  I know it is self-centered and selfish to wish God’s blessing upon myself, but I struggle to understand His will for me or how I might use this disease so as to demonstrate His kindness and generosity to others.

            In short, I feel as if upon the edge of a precipice.  Below me is madness, chaos, the Biblical waters God (and later, Jesus) calmed.  I wait for Him to blow across the surface of the waters, wait for the infinite ocean of light and love but only seeing darkness and destitution.  I cannot, do not believe He intends this.  I fought for faith after my paralysis; I would do so here, as well, if I knew where to begin.

            Thank you for remaining examples of what it truly means to be Christian.  You and your families remain in my thoughts and prayers.

                                                                                    Chris

Letting Go

I have racing thoughts.  A lot of them, and all the time.  It’s either a part of my mental illness, or it’s a reaction to the medications that I’m on.  I have to ask the psychiatrist if there’s anything that can be done, though I dread adding another chemical to my daily cocktail.

With my racing thoughts I want everything done yesterday.  I want to plan for events so far in advance it’s ridiculous.  I’m tetchy, on edge, sometimes nervous other times dickish.  The only total and complete cure for this state of being is alcohol.  Yes, a pair of fingers of Irish whiskey, a fat cigar, and those annoying thoughts settle right down.  I’m in the moment, in the zone, when I have a little liquor in the belly.  As an alcoholic those moments , brief and ephemeral, are like fading glimpses of a nirvana never entirely known.  Clues, ephemera of lost Shangri-La.

Which is why being told that if I let go into the tao of living, the racing thoughts will subside, is so hurtful.  I know it’s right, but all those racing thoughts say no, say to pack a parachute first, to be prepared.  Trungpa Rinpoche said that the bad news is that you’re falling, no parachute, nothing to grab onto.  The good news is that there is no ground.  I recall that in moments like this, and wish I were braver, wish I could step to the edge, look down into it, smile and jump.

It’s more like I cower my way to the edge, close my eyes rather than look into it, cringe and run away.

I can’t this time, though.

I’m looking down into the gaping maw of life, the rush of it, the forceful strength of it, knowing that I have to jump in, that it’s the only way the thoughts will go away, it’s the only way I can move past the pent up fear and fully live, fully embrace life.  It’s the only way I stand a chance of keeping my girlfriend, it’s the only chance I have to drop all that hurt and annoyance when it comes to my family, it’s the only way I can accept who I am with all my limitations and not cry over all the spilt milk.

I have to do it.  Forced to lean over the edge like this, hair tossed a million different ways at once, face revealed in a golden glow and all sound reduced to the white noise of rushing air.  I must jump.  I must trust there is no ground.  I must do it.

OK, so how?