When I started the Spin post the other day I didn’t mean to write about the media hype around the latest whatever it is to keep us on our toes; the latest fear to keep us in line; the latest threat to justify paying taxes and the 24 hour newsreel. I didn’t even intend to have a dig at the kids who see little past their smartphones and will be the first to perish when the power actually does go out for good.
I didn’t intend to write those things but they were prevalent throughout the day and I did say that these posts should somehow reflect the day that they are written in a tiny snapshot of a way. If I can. I mean I’m still religiously writing in the journals. By hand. With a pen, that has actual ink. And I don’t think that that will ever stop. I don’t think it can, you see when the power does go off…and I have candles.
I intended to write about actual spinning. In my head. It has come back and it’s disconcerting. Mostly it happens when I cough or change position quickly. I walked into town for a coffee with a colleague and she must have noticed me veering all over the place like I was drunk.
Two years ago it struck fairly hard. I remember it like it was yesterday; I was teaching a year 10 class and my brain seemed to come loose from the inside of my head. I wouldn’t say it actually spun but rather oscillated back and forth like a VHS cassette on pause. I couldn’t stand up; I couldn’t see. My eyes were watering and my skin clammy with cold sweat. By the expressions on their faces I didn’t look too good either and I had to feel for the door and creep to the office. For months after I thought I had had a stroke; I thought it was a seizure; I thought I had a brain tumour.
They ran the tests and found nothing and I was still getting dizzy and after a while it stopped. But now it’s back and I think that it could be stress. Too much thinking and analysing and trying to meet my ridiculous demands. Trying to force myself to write the amazing ideas that fling themselves mercilessly inside my brain in manic attempts to be let out. And there’s the girls to look after and the job to keep on doing.
I’ll just have to see how it goes but I’ll probably be at the doctor’s again. I mean, what else can I do? It’s affecting work. It’s causing me all sorts of anguish and I really don’t want it. It’s not like I’m looking for something to define myself by so that I can know just who I am. I want the freedom of mind and the stability of the earth beneath my feet so that I can find the balance to write: that’s how I want to define myself.
There’s a lot of writing to do…