In the Eye of the Storm
April 4, 2015
WARNING! The autobiographical material in the following essay was not harmed during the hyperbolization process. Some was not affected at all. Please read with caution. Do NOT read this in your house. It is okay in your home.
It is calm, when you are in the eye of the storm.
The tornado’s gizzard; that pause between Tsunami chasing earthquake, when you just, don’t, really, feel, anything, at, all.
As you come to, you think that Nietchze was WRONG, as well as you.
Not just in how you spelled his name, but in the possibility there might be enough left to survive the defecation hitting blade.
The first hit, for me, was the cnacer, and the proud march of denial towards the end.
It was like tying a noose around an acorn and thriving on her blossoming, giving breath, while watching her SUFFOCATE.
During this second generation, because the knowledge that she had microinvasion was more than Captain Kirk could handle, even with a holodex of unlimited thoughts at his disposal, the KLINGONS of his cortex brought out their tools to renovate the very wiring of his brain.
That’s how TRAUMA works.
The threat is greater than any ancient version of you can handle.
When the stakes of survival are this high, our genes cash in their neurochips, regardless of the trade off.
The cache of defeat is smuggled to the bleak market of the neural swamp. In this underbelly, wicked memories are exchanged for chemicals.
The dealers, in these meme labs of fear, distribute cortisol, the drug of defeat.
Cortisol is great for a sprint, terrible for muddling through a torturous marathon.
It is a blowtorch inside your pudding brain.
And there is a new blueprint, a remodel of your brainstem, NOT approved or according to code.
This new twilight zoning decries sleep as over budget, and safety a forbidden luxury.
And feeling ANYTHING is cause for a ribbon-cutting that you can’t attend.
I guess to really understand just how much one can be down in Loss Vegas, you first have to admit, one is lucky to ever find their true king or queen.
Most of us just want to join the club where we exchange hearts for diamonds.
We are all pretty fun to ride, but eventually the curves become (UN) predictable.
Every once in a while, however, random becomes destiny, out of millions swimmingly vying for oval eyes to meet, and what is nourished, is the jackpot.
For many couples, things are fine until the midgets show up like disheveled Jehovah’s witnesses, continually begging you to hear their diatribe on SpongeBob.
Life’s attrition ERODES you, and you cease to really be yourself anymore.
Eventually, the commercial overtakes the sitcom. You feel more and more like an ordinary adult, with ordinary life to shoulder.
That moment is a DANGEROUS disturbance in the gravity between you, when lovers suddenly become parents.
We sadly watched, as many of our friends lost their footing on love, and floated apart.
We saw the smartest ones fight the least, after a new challenger broke the rings, of their fairy tale liftoff.
I had a princess, but lacked sight enough to see, that she would eat the poison apple, but not one BITE out of me.
Before she left, her love kissed the lucky frog, and was undaunted when nothing magical happened.
(She could see my frozen developmental shortcomings, that prevented a more mature synapse. These are conveniently blamed, on my less than symbiotic relationship, with my xx template. For in my family game of musical chairs, she would always find a throne, and the rest feared the ruler. The court was aware of the pact, with the suitors in their recliners)
Now, you may ask xy, or you may recognize an absence from that bracketed paragraph; as yet, another, missing metaphor.
My failure at maturity is therefore not without a convenient alibi.
My mirror was cracked, and self image hard to put together.
I sustained myself on the LITTLE that was dropped, and followed a twisted path. I needed to parallel park my right of way, for many years after, I possessed my licence.
This was my farking lot.
I then rebuilt my worldview, from tabula rasa up, one pixel at a time, using the recipe of observation.
A hard reset was required, to have any chance, at learning applicable code.
Soon, on screen, was the operating system of larger society, clearly etched in our collective existential memory. This iGod debate, that sparks TERROR in our confusion about the afterlife, provides the solder for every meme that has followed.
And in the vast database, I had found the correct file. The one that could freely download my patch with more compatibility than any other. And then expand again with my inputs, at times easily surpassing my RAM, and hard drive.
We were a mutually beneficial arrangement, yielding a rich dividend of gentle and sweet things.
When I replayed the conflict of my long forgotten battle, the war cry came easily.
She, as my match, deflected each blow easily too. Her brainbone was reinforced by lineage, a collective Epigenome withstanding and reflecting to me, an adolescent begging for permission, to leave the cocoon.
It translated, and we began to share the security of sitting on the same bench on the sidelines of our children’s lives as lovers too, which may leave one on the edge of the seat.
So easy it is, to regress and compete with your children. Or displace the conflict, into the sibling rivalries, typical of acrimonious neighbors.
So we had everything, then see above, leaving me sad and afraid for a duration not explained by time.
It’s the stuff that makes emptiness, because WE have nothing.
Once the silence gets louder, you remember.
I still have it all in me, and them, and the promise I made.
You know what I am talking about.
The numbness, in the I of the storm, is caused by the cumulative effects of cortisol, like the gentle drizzle of acid rain over the Butchart Gardens.
Happy thoughts nourish your garden, but my flowers wilted, like the weeks that follow the funeral.
But for most, and your host, limbo has a lifespan.
When it is done, you can see their sun.
This spot light, which burns eyes, makes you rehearse, and stay inside.
Even though, you have been waiting, and that time is now.
But you are determined to play your part, in this new act.
You step towards the event horizon, as the shine reveals your chemical blasted face, the derivative of an inner visage.
From emotion comes conviction, and you find your voice again.
Your role has changed, but the other actors are the same, and most help you with your lines. The past has made you the understudy, but now you see that this new part was the one you were born to play.
Your very own snowflake, in a fractal blizzard.
My robotic hibernation is lifting, that torpor of tragedy where experience changes brain, and the arc distorts every sensory antennae, yielding more static than sense.
That’s when the great imitators who you already know, cry wolf, and you are still scared.
Now, I can see through the sheep’s clothing, and now, Oma will get her cookies.
Simon Trepel, MD; for Kerri K.k. Tymchuk, 1977-2012
Simon Trepel, MD FRCPC, is a practicing Child and Adolescent Psychiatrist, in Winnipeg, Canada. He is an Assistant Professor, at the University Of Manitoba, in the Faculty of Medicine, and the Co-founder of the GDAAY Clinic. He is, more importantly, the proud Father of 2 beautiful Daughters. He writes in his spare time about things he knows something about, and occasionally about things he doesn’t; like Yoga, and Italian flavored coffees. He was not referring to coffee that tastes like an Italian person.
Check out his Blog, called Simon Says Psych Stuff, at