That's what I have lived over the past year-and-a-half. Life finds a way. The light is where I walk, even when I fail to see it. Especially when I fail to see it, or feel its warmth inside me. Project 365 forces me to reach beyond the heavy and hazy darkness that often shrouds me, and touch the beauty around me. In a large metropolis infested with poverty, dejection, and social predation ... where cranes and gawkish steel ghouls loom above ... and, where rats the size of kittens scutter across filthy alleys, the beauty of life seeps through, looking large like a sunbeam leaking through a tiny crevice.
Though it's a little over a year since it happened, the PTSD lingers still. My tolerance for stress has not returned to me; possibly it will never return. Night terrors and nightmares frequently menace my sleep, now necessarily induced by at least 100 mg, and sometimes 200 mg, of Trazadone. Indeed, I do talk in my sleep. This strange practice began only in the wake that terrible thing that happened. I no longer have the night terrors in which I'm screaming and shrieking and desperately trying to escape an unseen monstrous predator, and then awake with a pounding heart. I no longer have the night terrors in which I'm being buried alive, or being helplessly swept to my death by the giant wheels of an Orange Winnipeg Transit Bus.
I do, however, still have terrors in which I'm running from some formidable uniformed predators, with nowhere to escape. Often Jonathan Baxter rouses me from these nightmares, unable to stand the agony of listening to me screaming and shrieking at unknown assailants to get off of me ... get out of my house ... etc. Wednesday morning he roused me from a terror in which I was screaming I hate you I hate you, simply by asking me, Why do you hate me? The sound of his voice pulled me toward consciousness, because I remember my reply, given him in the groggy twilight between sleep and lucidity, Not you. I have noticed that I fight the depression demon on those mornings following a night terror.
With time I do suppose these menacing night frights will subside. But perhaps my heightened paranoia about unformed personnel (particularly police and security guards) will remain. For example, the explosion of police presence (in anticipation of 2010 Olympics) in downtown Vancouver means it's become common place to see three coppers just standing at a street corner, casually chatting. I somehow convince myself they're just waiting, ready to pounce ... just looking for the right moment, like a lioness watching her prey from a hidden view. I draw myself out of this train of thought by casually telling myself It's not always all about you, girl.
Above earths lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?