Recently at a dinner party I was talking to a psychologist who somehow managed to solicit my clinical diagnoses. I’ve never met anyone in her profession who talks shop at a party, but I shrugged and told her: PTSD and OCD (while one is often an aspect of the other, mine were precipitated and diagnosed separately).
She thought that I was far too balanced and comfortable to have ever been as sick as I was, and said so. I replied that I honestly could not even make eye contact until I was twenty-nine years old. She wanted to know more – how did I recover without therapy, drugs?
I shrugged and said I had everything I needed.
The truth is that submitting to a course of treatment would have been an additional trauma – I was hurt by doctors, even if they kept me alive. I couldn’t get better unless I fixed myself.
It took ten years of diligent work, and there is a lifetime of more ahead of me, but I have made enormous progress.
I remember being so reserved I practically did not talk. Lately I hardly ever stop.
In fact, I am no longer the cold, lonely person described in the first three-quarters of Lessons in Taxidermy. Yes, I have both metaphoric and literal scars. But my slightly demented mutiny against the past worked in a fundamental way.
I’ve changed so much I hardly know myself. I have fantastic adventures but I also have feelings. How confusing!
Last night I asked Byron if I have changed beyond recognition, and he said You’re just growing up.