September 16, 2019
And now you’re still again.
Sometimes. One of the treatments worked, though I’m not sure which. One of them caused vertigo and nausea, though I’m not sure which. But even after I went off them, I’m usually still.
Is that not enough?
It’s certainly better, don’t get me wrong. The stress of driving will bring out the dance-like turn of my arm. An interview a few weeks ago went poorly after the twitching and twirling got bad enough to prevent me from focusing on the problem at hand. A distressing scene in a movie will leave me paralyzed and rigid in my seat, posture unnatural and unnerving.
Judith reassured me that it looked like I was stretching, that it was less distressing than the tic.
You still apologized. You apologized to all of your partners the first time they saw it, and countless times after.
Yes. I explained and explained, hoping they’d forgive me.
For what? For being less than perfect?
For being vulnerable. Even after so long away from my dad and Jay, it’s ingrained in me that vulnerability is a personal failing. Or perhaps it’s more general: perhaps vulnerability is worth apologizing for because of some hereditary reason. Perhaps I’m apologizing to my ancestors, to the human race, for being less than they hoped for, for being a disappointment.
How very human of you.
My therapist apologized to me on one stressy day when I was visibly struggling to stay still. She said she felt bad for having caused this. I rushed to reassure her that, no, it probably wasn’t her fault, that I’d been on the antipsychotics for a while before ever meeting her. That the tic started back in 2012 before I’d even started those.
You apologized for the fact that she felt the need to apologize.
Well, yes.
It’s not your fault either, you know.
On an intellectual level, sure. I know. On some deeper level, obviously I don’t. Or can’t.