The past few months: there is a lot to say, and not much to say...
I continue feeling weakened, sleepy, with problems centred on the new medications. I resolve them more successfully on some days, with various ancillary medicines, and not at all successfully on others.
There was a point in early January when I awoke, calm and happy, as though some of the old, incoherently dark stuff that was coming up in analysis between September and December was simply over: a situation that is hard to describe or explain, though I have pages of notes among my dreams. Some of the space and lightness has remained.
Reconnecting to teaching, students, colleagues.
And now in Zürich for twelve days – not going to many events (hmm, I probably shouldn't have paid tuition this semester), but having some excellent supervision sessions.
I am at times anxious and moody, defensive or a bit barbed with other students, especially around health; but that feels rather shallow, as though things have truly shifted.
Coming home from supervision with Kast in St. Gallen the other night – walking through the cold, calm evening of a Tuesday in Zürich, with not many people about. I was walking through the upper part of town looking for a restaurant, to have some dinner.
And, as occasionally it has, a generalised weakness/dizziness hits me – the body just stops having the energy to move...
As I am next to the church above the Helmhaus, it is dark for some distance around, but there is a bench in front of the church. I sit for twenty minutes or so in the cold, shaking – not with cold but with fatigue – looking down to the Limmat where there are lights – trying to figure out how to get home – feeling like Ashenbach: no, not with the barber, or the strawberries, but when he just can't move any further –
As my energy doesn't improve I finally stand and move, steadily if shakily, across the dark plaza and down the stairs; a few people glance at me curiously. It is wonderful that the tram stop is just across the street, and I reach it, as though trekking across a wide desert, in a few minutes – few cars, few people.
When I get off the tram the woman next to me is pleasant, then as I rise slightly alarmed – she probably thinks I'm drunk. As there's nothing I can do about that, I lurch off the tram and get to my building –
as I go up the stairs I have that sense that occasionally comes to me, of generations of Sicilian and Greek ancestors: it has never been clear what their lives were like, but I assume there was a lot of steady outdoor work. Because I never faint, and can always push a bit further: there's stone in the blood.
And drop my coat by the sofa, take off my shoes, and lay shaking on the bed....
After a couple of hours I get up and eat some of whatever's in the house. Put the coat away, try to prepare papers and such for the next morning.
A., a doctor who is also a student here, tells me I'm exaggeratedly anxious about my health these days. Perhaps; at least partially.
Analysis over a computer connection yesterday – my analyst, who has multiple sclerosis, wants to discuss both the quasi-hysteria of anxiety about one's health, and also the real difficulties of being ill: both sides, the projected and the concrete. I feel too tired to work through it during our session (which is plagued by bad reception on his end – we will have to change our procedures), but afterwards it resonates with me. It is always both overly theatrical, and bluntly real, with me... there is no centre point.
Last night, in the middle of the night, I read in Magid's Nothing is Hidden a discussion of a Zen parable about the nature of the world: we are, at the same time, in both a world of suffering and a world of light. It is exactly the same world: no difference – the only differences are what we project onto it.
As is perhaps an appropriate reaction, my eyes teared up, then I was calm, and fell into a deeper sleep...