Spike One One

What is Your Emergency?

Two days ago, my beloved longhorn Bobby-Jo lost her calf during birth. I will spare you and me both the details of the day, permanently burned into my memory now. What I will describe instead is one of my craziest superpowers, a gift I possess courtesy of having PTSD, a condition that necessitates careful navigation of even everyday events, lest I startle and have a meltdown. 

This gift is dissociation. More specifically, I can now, in many instances, dissociate at will, shut down my entire system except for whatever is called for in a crisis moment. When I was little, and really only up until recently, dissociation just happened to me. I couldn’t harness it. I didn’t always know it was happening until long after the fact. Now I can summon a shut down as needed.

I met my first real boyfriend in the early ‘80s in college. By “real” I mean that he wasn’t a carny I spent a night or two rolling around with under the boardwalk. He was my steady. My steady nightmare. My steady sparring companion. And, I felt certain, my future husband. Because I was raised to believe you marry your first mate. 

Of all the shitty things he ever said or did to me—throwing me across the room into a bicycle which left a perfect derailleur shaped bruise on my ass, pitching jealous fits anytime anyone wanted my attention, cheating on me and lying about it—the thing that stuck most in my craw was the time he told me that I would be horrible in an emergency.

I have zero recollection of the circumstances of this commentary. I wish to give him no credit for anything ever, but I will cop to the fact that, being in my early 20s and years away from therapy, I was still extremely reactive. For I had grown up in a cloistered house of torture where mountains and molehills were forever being confused with the other. So maybe his remark stemmed from some Big Response on my part to something he deemed Small.

I do not know if the person I grew to become in emergencies was a direct reaction to that weird criticism of his—as in, “Oh yeah? You think so? Watch this!”— or if I had it in me all along. Whatever the case, if you are flipping out over something and you need help, I’m your man.

Recently I read that people with ADHD (we’ll talk about that diagnosis another time) are often just who you want in your corner when life is cornering you. This theory, I think, hinges on the fact that we ADHD’ers can hyperfocus to beat the mofo band. Whenever I look back on one emergency or another I’ve helped resolve, it’s like I’m watching another person entirely. A person who has ceased to feel the weather, see the trees, experience emotion. 

Because there is no room for emotion in an emergency. I shut all that shit down. For example, I sat with my cow for days on end as she labored. I felt sick and worried but I refused to let her know. I stayed focused on her, her distress, her needs. When the situation turned dire and I felt panic coming on, I shut that down, too. There was this moment when a bolt of lightning shot through me, I vomited without warning and then, second bolt, what little was left inside of me shot out the other end. I was not sick. I had no virus. This was my body preparing to focus, eliminating every unnecessary element from my being.

And then, though I should not have been surprised, because this happens with some regularity, I was astonished as I watched appear in my head a list of at least ten people I could call for help. It was a wacky list full of cowboys and vets and my plumber neighbor who once lifted a refrigerator off the back of my truck all by himself without breaking a sweat. 

My autopilot in emergencies is amazing. I think of nearly everything. If your arm has fallen off, it is very likely I have everything we need to reattach it in my knitting bag, which is always very near to hand. If you are screaming your head off, I will get you into a slow deep breathing pace faster than Buddha could. 

And I am thoughtful enough to issue warnings about myself. The young man who answered my frantic calls for help grew up on a cow farm. He is my son’s age. First I reported on the patient and the stages of her failing labor. Then I reported on myself. I explained to him that because of my PTSD, and because of the fact that the calf died from the same complications that very nearly killed my son at birth, I might have trouble hearing him. I told him that if he gave me an instruction and I failed to follow through, he must tell me again, must look into my eyes and get through to me.

It would be nice if I didn’t have to add in this step, but the fact that I know I need to, makes me feel even better about myself and emergencies. I cover all bases.

There is something else I know, the final step in my personal Emergency Response System. I know that somewhere down the road, hidden around a corner, every emotion I have turned off or held back to get through the emergency will rush in and overtake me. When my aunt died young and tragically, I felt something like aghast at myself for my non-reaction. Not a single tear. What was wrong with me?

Then, weeks later, I was at the Dobie watching Preston Sturgis’s Miracle at Morgan Creek, a misogynistic homage to domestic violence, when something on screen flipped the switch. I lost it. The floodgates of my Aunt Tears opened.I had to get out of there.

After the calf died, after we did what we needed to do to save the mom, which thankfully we did, I monitored myself closely, waiting for this part to happen. For all of the emotion of being so close to death to catch up with me. I did not have to wait long. 

Last night I was messaging with a friend specifically chosen because he has had years of experience with Sad Spike. Sad Spike hasn’t shown up in a long time. When this happens, I need to be able to talk it through with someone who understands that sadness doesn’t always mean depression, the specter of which always looms, and is rightfully frightening, as it has damn near taken me down more than a few times in my life. 

I explained to my friend that I was observing myself to see where my grief might take me. Not that it’s a competition, but I’ve had far more than my fair share of grief and so I know what a sneaky bastard grief is. I pointed out that the night before, no longer having drink as a self-destructive option to drown my sorrows, I had momentarily flirted with joining some Date a Cowboy website. Even though I have no interest in dating. Or cowboys. 

I speculated that I’d done this because my mind, so trained to seek chaos, wanted a dangerous distraction from my sorrow. But then I realized it was far simpler than that. The zoning out of my sadness had been enhanced by an edible I had eaten to take off the edge. An edible that loosened me up to the vulnerability I had shoved aside in an emergency.

So when I turned on the TV for further distraction, and observed the shy courtship of a gentle giant ostrich farmer in Australia and his ostrich obsessed veterinarian, I got a little verklempt. Surely, I thought, if these two ostrich nerds could find each other, there must be a freak out there for me. 

I next turned to Craigslist. A couple of my roommates are moving out and, just for kicks, I wanted to see where the market is at for rents before I list their rooms. I landed down the rabbit hole of “housing wanted” and, hoo boy! If you think it’s fun to go to dating websites and turn your nose up at losers, let me tell you, the pickings are even better over here. 

I screenshotted the best of them and sent them to my friend, the one appointed grief counselor. Of the dude who posted a whole series of “sexy” photos and the admission he had no money but was “real nice” my friend remarked, “I can’t believe he’s not taken already.”

The simplest, silliest of remarks. And with it, I began to laugh. And laugh. And then two seconds later I was bawling my eyes out and shaking and I knew this was the tsunami I had been awaiting with both dread and hope. 

I needed it out of my system. I needed to acknowledge the utter despair I felt as I sat with that cow for days on end, unable to help her. I needed to admit to myself how scary and horrible it all had been. And I needed to remind myself that even if I am the best person I know to have on hand for an emergency, eventually all that emotion is going to come for me and the best I can do is hold on and let it rip.

NOTE FROM SPIKE: Y’all, I am bringing back Memoir Writing Workshop and also offering a bunch of classes starting Sept 27th. You can see the offerings and register at SconeCrone.com/register. I’d be grateful if you’d help me get the word out. Thanks.