Between the Edge and the Chasm

by Carol Krause

Another email from the queer social group appears in my inbox. I am invited to skate with a group of strangers. I do not open the message. It will be too much for me, this gathering of fingers and eyes. I may get dazed. Or I may drown in the clattering of voices, temporarily losing my grounding in the so-called “real” world. Part of me wants to meet a partner. Maybe make some new friends. But I do not read the email.

When I say I need to make my world smaller, I mean fewer noises and lights and frequencies. Car sounds. Train sounds. Streetcar signs. Strange eyes. So, I do. I start using specialized accessible transit frequently. I stop going to social events that overwhelm me. I also stopped working at a “job” about four years ago. I say no to opportunities that feel like threats.

I suppose you could call it a disability. I am, in the way of the world, disabled. I receive disability income support and other forms of support, including practical and financial assistance from my parents. I also call it sensitivity, which is another way of saying that inside is outside and outside is inside. Sometimes it feels like I have lost the boundary between me and everyone else. This can make being alive painful.

These words may seem like a strange way to start a piece on gratitude, but the very stuff of life that has led me to grief has led me to gratitude. I sit here at a desk scattered with papers, at 11:29 a.m. I am writing, again. I haven’t had breakfast yet. I am working on my second cup of tea. I am not distracted by a child or job or partner. Only by a cat. After I have written a short poem and a tentative paragraph, I begin this piece, my unexpected way of saying thank you. I am steeped in life.

~ ~ ~

When I started to split open again, over five years ago, I thought this is temporary. Something a little magical and a little terrifying that would rip through me, take hold of me, and leave me to my routine a few months later. But what came after changed everything. I learned more about fear. I learned more about love. I forgot what I thought I thought. And remembered what I had never forgotten. Life became intense. Things have since somewhat settled down, except that I am still exposed to the worlds around me and inside me. And I still occasionally slip into the void.

Sometimes I slip into dark places—literally. These places are called caves.

~ ~ ~

She teaches me how to move. Where to place my foot. Where to grasp my hand. How to lower my body down. I call her Goddess of the Underworld, because she moves with a grace that is of the shadows. She is in her mid-fifties, radiant, and full of life. When we caved together this summer, her calm voice eased me down an approximately fifty-foot ladder, which was divided into two sections. When it was time to pull myself up again, I said: I don’t want to do this. She said, that’s why we do this. I hooked an arm under a rung and started pulling myself upwards. My boots barely fitting on the narrow rungs. In the middle of the air, I had to transfer to the other section. (Thankfully, I was tethered to a rope.) I kept going and raised myself up into the bright world above. Then I pulled myself onto the ground and smiled. Joy. That’s why I do this.

We sat together in a pocket of rock under the ground, waiting for two explorers to emerge from a risky frisk with the other side. The warm air blew through the passageway. We relaxed in the muck. In this exquisite wasteland, the words we shared took on a rare significance. I revelled in lounging around like that—in a giant cradle of mud and rock—and in feeling as if our conversations were being witnessed by a mysterious and non-judgmental presence.

When the explorers collapsed onto stone, their fear burst all over the walls. Laughter ignited the darkness; their encounter with death was a source of wild delight. I emerged with them, somehow. That is the way of adventure—it cannot be kept to oneself. It must be passed around with every exhale.

Crawling into caves is a misfortune I am lucky to experience. Going into the underworld with my hands and knees is my way of embracing darkness. I take in my fear and breathe out wonder. This is where I come alive.

If I am going to write about gratitude, I need to write about going places I don’t want to visit: places where I desperately want to go. Places where I meet life. In between the edge and the chasm. Not jumping carelessly into the void, but gently easing my way into the unknown.

~ ~ ~

I cut a tiny pill in half last night. One half went into my mouth, and the other half went back into the bottle. I am lowering one of my anti-psychotics. I can feel the energy of the world pulsate through me even more. I don’t know how I can take all of it.

I am supposed to visit a community home. This is a group of people I am familiar with and see fairly often. I feel myself growing overwhelmed by the world around me inside me. I call Wheel-Trans, the specialized transit service that helps me travel to the other end of the city under certain conditions, wondering if they can move my ride up, so I can have a shorter visit. After I hang up, I call again. And again. And again. Hoping that an earlier ride becomes available. Each time not sure whether to cancel my visit planned for the evening. Finally, I call a friend and tell her I am supposed to go to the community home, but I am overwhelmed. She suggests I cancel. So, I do.

Once again, I sit at my desk with my cat on my lap and wrestle with gratitude. Sacrifice. Giving one thing up to gain another. Or perhaps, learning not to give up anything in order to ask for nothing.

I am trying to lower my medication. While another prescribed drug might be the cause, I suspect it is this one that is messing with my kidneys. I am convinced it is causing me to have a couple of concerning adverse effects. And I sense it is subtly interfering with the mystical experiences that pour through me. The thing is, this medication helps me speak and write, and think. In a way, it helps me survive. It prevents me from staring into space without speaking. And it softens the blow of paranoia against my chest. Is there anything in life that just gives or takes?

~ ~ ~

Mystic in the Forest, Madwoman in the Streets?

Have you ever heard a tree sing? I don’t mean the sound of singing but the feel of singing. If you think you might have, you and me, we can begin here.

The leaves are a feast of fire in the park, where I go nearly every day. Being on disability allows me to spend much time with the trees. Sometimes I stare at them. Sometimes I stare with them. On days like these, we gaze together at the sky.

I have never been on a psilocybin trip. But while it was a more intense time, my former psychiatrist said that my experience of the world was like navigating the world on psilocybin. Granted, I am not on a high dose. But I suspect it is as if I am in some ways always naturally on the spectrum of this psychedelic. That’s why I sometimes slip into openings with the trees. And the rocks and the sky. Everything slows down and speeds up at the same time. Words like “oneness” mean nothing, because there’s no need to count.

I feel my body everywhere, singing. Bone melting into sky. When I am empty of Carol, I am full of Carol. I am not scared anymore. For I am infinitely cared for. Love takes my hands. Love takes my eyes. Love gives back my hands. And love gives back my eyes.

There is no sense in words like grateful anymore. Thank you is everywhere. And no thank you is no longer an option.

Sadly, my current dosage seems to make me experience openings less often. Sometimes the openings are more subtle. But the anti-psychotics and the mood stabilizer prescribed haven’t been able to take away my receptivity to mystery. I delight in experiencing the unknown through sensing gentle hands that provide me comfort and love.

When I am inside an opening, schizoaffective disorder can’t keep up with me. Yes, there is a story of what is going on with my brain and how it needs to be treated. Hello, story. I am not anti-schizoaffective disorder. This awkward creature can come along for the ride. But it will emerge unrecognizable.

These are not symptoms of psychosis, I tell my doctor. And I’m pretty sure that she agrees. This is not the scary dark bound feeling of being controlled by a malevolent force. I have been to the hell realms and have had the experience of some dark force entering my mind. While I learned a lot from this dark force—it was harmful, to be sure—this is something different. It’s not that these states are exactly heavenly. Because that would not account for the earth’s complicity. I don’t call it a higher power that moves through the pores of my skin. For it is beyond direction. And sometimes what I need is to go down.

This state of receptivity is not all love and peace. The very sensitivity that allows me to open to mystery also makes daily life incredibly challenging. Have you ever tried to navigate a grocery store on psilocybin? How bright is the light on the ceiling? What happens to the words and colours when they are all crammed together? How do the sounds around you become menacing, or just strange?

On the quiet bus, I was doing fine. The lights were low, and I had two seats to myself. This was different from riding the Toronto transit: I peacefully stared out the window as we travelled from a northern town to the big city. When I exited the bus, I didn’t know where to go. Signs and people not in a straight line. Too many lines and signs. Not this again. I could not find could not find could not find—. I asked for directions and made my way out onto the streets. The cars were swiping at my flesh. The lights were puncturing through bone. The sounds around me knocking me into the abyss. Where do I go? Where do I go? I started talking to myself in the street. No, not this. Not this. Whimpering. Wishing I could lash back at the threats swarming me. Help. Help. Help.

I asked one person. I didn’t understand. I asked another. I didn’t understand. Then I recognized someone from the bus and asked him for help. He led me to the cabs, and I tried to talk back. My words, fragile and uncertain. I was helpless. When I entered the cab, the windows were down. The sound assaulted me endlessly. I placed my hands over my ears as tears fell from my eyes. I was shaking with the sounds. Please, can you put the windows up? No response. Please, can you put the windows up? I am very sensitive to sound.

And he did. I sat in the cab, my naturally psychoactive mind no longer an ally. The world around me no longer calling me deeper. The world around me pulling me down.

The stranger who led me to the cabs had a name. I do not remember his name. Our encounter was brief, though not forgettable. He had a large cowboy hat. And a big smile. We shared a few minutes together. He was my brief protector. When we parted, I said thank you.

How come everything wretched brings me something to be grateful for?

~ ~ ~

I grieve the loss of many things I used to do. Like meditate and go on retreats and work at a job. I live a simpler life. I am not the person I used to be. But give me an empty morning, and I will write the fullness of being all over my walls. And it won’t matter that I am on disability support and need help from my parents with many things. Life doesn’t demand that I be grateful for what I have gained or what I have lost. It simply invites me to recognize what the storm left behind.

~ ~ ~

I am sitting on my bed, and the world is inching forward, with threatening eyes. Is this paranoia again? I fumble to distract myself then sit longer inside the fear. Next, I convince myself to dance. On the wooden floor, in the living room. In the dark. I can feel the energy of life moving through me. It is fiercer now that I take a lower dose of anti-psychotic. So, I dance. Thrusting my body into space, leaping. Swaying. I am alive.

I haven’t danced for a long time. I think I’ve been on too much medication. But now I dance away paranoia and the clenched fist of obsession. Four songs later, I head to the streets. The world moving through me with inviting eyes. We stare out the inside together.

~ ~ ~

We lowered ourselves down a ladder. It was late at night, and I was tired. The owl that had swept in front of us minutes earlier was now invisible. This was an underground maze watched over by the gods. Its secret chambers laced with porcupine dung. I had hoped we could come here. And I didn’t want to be here. But we pulled our bodies over muddy bedrock and began our journey.

We were covered with the excrement of the animal that had ambled through. This was our third day of maneuvering across mud and stone, and I felt myself weaken. I’m having a hard time, I told him. Half of caving is having a hard time, he replied. I sensed his words down to my core, and something latent in me came alive. What was wrong with having a hard time?

We moved within a curving passage with the ease of the boneless. I dragged myself into an effortless state. Bones and flesh and breath. We passed fish. We said hello to a toad. We admired an elegant spider. When we emerged, we were filthy. We laughed into the early morning air. I left with no complaints.

Half of caving is having a hard time. And the other half? Wanting to have a hard time.

~ ~ ~

I am not having a hard time. I am joyful as a fish. The small decrease in dosage has given me more of everything; lowering it slightly seems to release me from its restricting hold. Today I am left with the joy of leaving nothing behind. I don’t know how it will feel to visit my friends next week or how intense grocery shopping will be. Will I want everything that I am given?

~ ~ ~

I do not have a gratitude journal. But, if I did, I would write in it:

Thank you to my illness for helping me realize I’m not sick.

Then I would hesitate, because sometimes I still feel like I’m sick. And I don’t like it. But there would be a line that I would not draw between everything I want and everything I don’t want. In lieu of the line that I would not draw, there would be a space. In that space would be the possibility that there’s nothing wrong. Here is where I would begin.

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ABOUT THE CREATOR

Creator photo by Marcus Buck

Carol Krause is a writer whose inconvenient mind often disrupts her plans. Sometimes this results in joy. Carol’s poetry has appeared in The Fiddlehead, PRISM international, Minola Review, and Augur. Her debut poetry collection is forthcoming with Guernica Editions. A lover of the underworld, Carol feels most alive crawling through caves. You can find her in a cave at carolkrause.ca.

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