Awakening My Muse
George S Geisinger
Around a year ago, I could neither speak nor write.
It wasn't that my voice was gone, either. I was not hoarse. I could make sounds fine; it was just that I couldn't formulate words or sentences well enough to say anything. For those of you who like medical terms, the communications center of my brain shut down for awhile. It's called Transmittal Aphasia. I could not verbalize my thoughts. I could understand language; I just couldn't use it.
I had gotten monumentally confused about how to take my medicine, which I've been taking in one form or another, for the past 40 years. For one thing, the medications wrecked my liver. For another, I was still living alone, and was so confused that I overdosed myself regularly, apparently, for a period of about two weeks running, or longer, on a daily and/or nightly basis. I kept waking up – or should I say coming to – on the floor of my apartment, where I would find myself already fallen down, with no memory of the event, night after night, until I was afraid I wouldn't wake up – or come to, at all. I was just old enough to be unable to get myself up off the floor on my own.
The only thing that saved me, I think, was the fact that I had flooded the apartment floors in my neighbor's apartment, as well as in my own. I had run the water in the bath room sink, and then passed out on the bath room floor with the water running, where I couldn't reach up well enough to shut it off. My cell phone in my pants pocket was ruined by the water on the floor. The landlord got a call from my neighbors, and came to my door with some workers in the morning, who helped me get up off the floor, after untold hours on the wet floor, all night. They began to replace the floors, which was an expensive proposition, to say the least. After several repetitions of this behavior, my landlord finally called an ambulance and a social worker.