Something inside you keeps saying, What the hell am I doing? You open doors, close them, greet everyone with the same false smile, the one where you raise the right side of your mouth more than the left, in a near-smirk, like Tom Cruise’s wife, What’s-Her-Name, the one with the pretty hair and pretty features and a nose smaller and straighter than yours. The kind of face you’ve always wanted.

But this isn’t about looks. There’s more going on, the fact that there’s not much to celebrate, of course, where your life is concerned, certainly not while something in you keeps saying, What the hell am I doing inside this small life with its picture-framed windows, retractable shades? This cubicle of a life, where nobody takes your picture or even notices that you’ve arrived. Where is the red carpet, the studded high heels you’ve longed for since childhood? Where are the rabbits that get pulled out of goddamn hats?

You knew a man once when you were young, a friend of your father’s, who could tie a knot in a cherry stem using only his tongue. He showed you and you laughed, his tongue sticking out with the knotted stem wrapped around the end. That’s when you knew magic existed in ordinary people. You believed you’d grow into that magic, like the women who got sawed in half then walked away whole, or like girls whose breasts exploded into double Ds practically overnight. You looked through catalogs from JC Penney at the lingerie section hoping someday magic would find and transform your body, make you into something remarkable and or at least wanted.

Your father had magic, walked into a room, his footsteps lighting it up. He soared on a combination of Marlboros and Bloody Marys, his every gesture illumitated. Power does that for people, makes them funnier, more engaging. But who cares if the attention is feigned? Didn’t someone once say appearance is all that matters?

But back to you. Dull, idle, wasted potential. Never amounted to much. And why does all that matter? Because of the promise that was made implicitly and explicitly — that you would be something, that people would notice you. But there’s nothing much to celebrate, other than your survival. And what does that amount to? Millions have done no less and against far greater odds.

You wait for the clouds to part, for something deep within to be churned up like water in a lake, its nutrients rising to the surface.

You wait to celebrate yourself.

* * *

This letter to myself uses or plays on the following lines from poems by Charles Bukowski:

Something inside you keeps saying / what the hell am I doing?
There wasn’t much to celebrate / of course
I was only celebrating myself

sweet

I saw a neurotologist yesterday and finally have an answer for why my hearing has been so sensitive for the past couple of months: I have Eustachian tube dysfunction. She tested the ability of my ears to respond to changes in pressure, and mine don’t respond. My tubes get locked in either the open or shut positions. When they are shut, sounds are muffled; when they are open, sounds are incredibly shrill and painful.

She loaded me up with medicines, mostly over the counter, that are supposed to help the condition, namely those for allergies and laryngopharyngeal reflux. I didn’t even know I had this form of reflux but once she described it, I realized I have all the symptoms associated with the condition, including hoarseness, difficulty swallowing, a lump in my throat and excess throat drainage. Who knew? I attributed those symptoms to my thyroiditis and allergies. Apparently, between the allergies and the reflux, the part of my Eustachian tubes that opens into my mouth has become inflamed, resulting in the dysfunction.

I am so happy I went to see the neurotologist. I saw an ENT a couple of weeks ago, and he had no idea what was going on. I could have given up at that point, but I decided to see someone who specializes in ear disorders instead. I almost canceled the appointment two days ago because I’d gotten to the point that I felt nobody could help me and I just had to live with the sensitivity. I’m so glad I didn’t give up too soon.

I am sharing this because a number of people have found their way to this blog in the past few days by searching for “hyperacusis” or “sensitive hearing.” I know how frustrating it can be to live with this condition, how quickly it can become debilitating, and I hope my diagnosis might help others who are looking for answers. Of course, not everyone will have Eustachian tube dysfunction, but some people will, so I want to share my experience.

We’ll see how all the medicines help over the next few weeks. The doctor said it will take some time before I notice any improvement. At least I have something to look forward to — and I’ve wrangled one of the seven health issues that is plaguing me. Actually, two of the seven: I’ve also made headway on my temporomandibular disorder, with the help of a TMD specialist. Now I just have to get over the thyroiditis and deal with the paresthesia, insomnia and fatigue, as well as the anxiety, which has not completely subsided.

OK, so I have a long way to go. But I am going, which is the important thing.

He enters the waiting room to greet me, a large but frail elderly man with a big smile that exposes his discolored teeth. The first thing I notice are his hands, which are covered in circular dry spots, as if he’d had, but was getting over, a skin infection of some sort. The second thing I notice is that his shoes have very thick soles, like they’ve been stacked to make him seem taller or perhaps weighted to keep him from toppling over like an old tree with weakened roots.

He leads me into his exam room, where I wait while he processes my credit card. The room is small, with just enough space for a chiropractic table, a desk and two chairs. Several windows are nestled between shelves full of herbs and supplements. The room smells sweet — like flowers at the peak of their bloom — but not too strong. I am surprised by how comforting I find the space.

It is not until the naturopath has come back from processing my payment and taken a seat adjacent to me that I notice his fingernails. Several are jaggedly torn back deep into the nail bed. All are thick and discolored, about the same shade as his teeth. Most disconcerting is that they are painted with clear polish. This gives them a worn out but lustrous look, much like spraying a shiny coat of Maaco automotive paint on a run-down vehicle that should be retired to a salvage yard.

It’s not the polish that I mind as much as what I think he might be trying to cover up. Given that his hands have what appear to be not-quite-healed sores, and given the general state of his nails, I suspect the naturopath might be using polish to seal something in, something that could otherwise get on and infect his patients.

And by his patients, I mean me. But of course this is my tendency: to worry. A man wearing nail polish can’t simply be a man wearing nail polish in the world I inhabit. No, it must mean something more, and particularly it must mean something bad is in store for me. I tell myself to settle down and just go with it. The naturopath is a doctor, after all. He wouldn’t do anything to put his patients in harm’s way, even if that meant refraining from practicing until his horrible flesh-eating disease healed.

My attention drifts from his nails to his shirt. It’s white. Somewhat wrinkled, which is no cause for alarm in the Seattle area, where most people haven’t seen an iron in years and the messy I-don’t-give-a-shit look prevails. It’s the front of the shirt that catches my eye. There is a large, dried stain that runs down the middle, from his suprasternal notch to his waistline. The stain is faint in the middle but darkens toward the edges and is approximately the color of rotten oak leaves. This is clearly a shirt he has sweat in, a lot — and repeatedly I would guess — until the stain has managed to set and cling to the fabric despite being laundered.

I’m having a very difficult time getting past the shirt issue, along with everything else, when the naturopath begins asking me questions. All I can think of are his hands, nails and shirt stain. After a couple of questions, he excuses himself, lumbering off to his office in his bulky shoes, because he can’t hear anything I’m saying. I always forget to put my hearing aids on, he says to me a little too loudly.

He appears again a few minutes later, adjusting the aid in his right ear until it’s properly positioned, and begins describing his method to me. Kinetic something-or-other. Basically, he will use the strength and weakness of my muscles to determine what supplements I need. I don’t really understand what he’s saying. After all, I’ve only come here to get some L-tryptophan* so I can sleep better. I don’t want extensive testing, but I try to be open-minded. Who knows what wisdom this dilapidated man in a stained shirt might possess. At this point, I am willing to look practically anywhere or to anyone for help with my health issues, even to this unconventional healer.

The naturopath instructs me to lie down on the chiropractic table and begins pushing on my muscles. He starts with the legs, telling me to lift my right leg into the air. He presses against my calf hard with both hands, telling me to resist the force he’s applying. He repeats the process several times, saying, Again, again, again. He calls this a strength test.

He paces around the exam room, muttering and shaking the finger on his right hand, as if he’s on the cusp of remembering something vital. He grabs a bottle from one of the shelves, returns to me, lays the bottle on my stomach then repeats the strength test several times.

Unpleased with the result, he snatches the bottle from my stomach, paces around the room in the same manner as before, grabs another bottle and places that one on my stomach. He goes through the same routine a few more times until he appears to find a satisfactory result with one of the herbs. He opens the bottle, breaks open a capsule and tells me to open my mouth.

I find the entire process laughable, but what can I do? Should I get up and leave? Should I tell this old man that I think his methods are bunk? I decide to do what anyone in my position would do, despite the fact that I don’t want this man’s hands anywhere near my mouth — I open wide. The naturopath lets the contents of the capsule fall onto my tongue. It is mildly acrid with a subtle, fruity aftertaste. He tells me we need to wait a few seconds, then he repeats the strength test. Lo and behold, my muscles are much stronger, he says.

He works his way along my entire body in this fashion, testing for strength, pacing the exam room, placing bottles of herbs and supplements on me, re-testing for strength, opening capsules and dropping their contents into my mouth, testing for strength again.

He ends with his test for my insomnia. This entails lifting my arms straight above my face and holding my palms together while he tries to pull my arms apart at the wrists. At this point, things are getting a little too close to S&M for my taste.

To make things even more S&M, the twist on this test is that the naturopath covers my eyes with a thick towel to simulate sleeping conditions. Again, again, again, he says as he tries to pull my arms apart. Then he grabs a bottle of L-tryptophan and places it in my right hand. Much stronger, he says as he tries to pry my arms apart. This will work for you.

In the end, I walk away with the L- tryptophan, a bottle of dandelion root extract and a $25 bottle of organic vitamin E complex, which I must say I find rather tasty. So tasty that I break open the capsules and eat them that way instead of simply swallowing them whole. I know I didn’t need to buy the dandelion root or the vitamin E, but what was I to do? The naturopath put so much effort into his method, quacky as it was, that I felt obligated to buy what he prescribed. You might do the same thing in my position. Or perhaps not.

This experience is not unlike a visit I made to a chiropractor in Kansas City about 10 years ago. She came highly recommended by everyone who worked at the natural grocery store I frequented. I went in with high hopes, and I was very excited when she told me she was going to do some testing for any medical conditions I might have.

As it turned out, the testing entailed having me lie face-down on a table while she asked a series of questions about my health. She then shook my feet and “read” the position of my feet for the answer to the question. If one was higher, the answer was yes. If the other was higher, the answer was no.

This approach is flawed for so many reasons, like the fact that she was limited to yes or no questions, since apparently feet only give those two answers. You can’t ask feet “What is wrong with Dana’s thyroid” and get a response. Even a Magic 8 Ball provides more answers than “yes” and “no.” Also, what the hell? Shaking feet for answers? What kind of test is that?

I knew it was nonsense, but I ended up buying a $90 bottle of fancy oil and a fancy cloth. I was instructed to douse the cloth in the oil and lay it on my stomach once a day. This is what my feet told her: that my path to healing involved basting myself with an oily rag.

But my point is, I could have left as soon as the foot-shaking began, and I certainly could have walked away without the oil, but I didn’t. Just as I didn’t bolt when the naturopath pressed on my body and fed me herbs. Apparently, there’s something in me that buckles, and opens my wallet, in the face of that which is oddly entertaining. Just imagine if I went to see a psychic. Who knows how much money I could blow there. Oodles, I’m guessing.

I’m proud to say that I did draw the line somewhere, though, with the naturopath. He wanted to do a chiropractic adjustment inside my mouth, which he said would help me sleep. I told him no. I could tell he was disappointed. I felt so bad, I thought of retracting my “no” and saying OK, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my tongue brushing across one of those painted nails. We all have boundaries, and that apparently is one of mine.

* * *

Oh, and can I interest anyone in some dandelion root? I’ve found that it’s too bitter. I don’t really care for it.

* * *

*I do not *at all* recommend taking L-tryptophan. My neurologist says it can cause bad reactions, and she thinks it might partially be responsible for my paresthesia, since I started taking it the day before that symptom started. So even though it’s touted as being all-natural and safe, it’s best to avoid it. It’s also best to avoid certain naturopaths, particularly the type described above. Even if they are on your insurance plan.**

**Yes, that naturopath is on my insurance plan. I am fairly certain they have no idea what kind of tomfoolery he’s up to.

Drive south on Highway 9
until you hit the only rest stop
with your name carved into the oak tree
just outside the women’s room,
then close your eyes and listen
with the hearing of that dog
you never wanted,
kept chained to a fence
until someone came along and stole it.
It was me, by the way.
The dog has a new owner now,
someone a lot like you
but without a life like a salvage yard.

A lot of things can go without water
for a long time and still survive.
You know how summer gets here,
ground cracked like hands in winter,
light through the windshield
that makes you think of the last days,
how the earth will be taken whole
into the sun, the way you were taken
whole into me, the way the tree
took the tip of the blade as I carved,
without a wince, without letting go
a single bead of sap.

* * *

I need to fix part of this. I’ll work on it later. Bear with me, people, I am just trying to write some stuff.

It’s 5:50 a.m. and I’ve woken up to a migraine. Too bad, since I was having an enthralling dream about midgets and talking cats. The cats could clearly pronounce the letters D and P, and they would go around saying deeeee peeee, deeeee peeee, deeeee peeee over and over. It appeared to be their way of purring. You could tell which ones they were even before they started purring because they were each branded with the letters D and P.

But back to the midgets. I was with my first boyfriend, and when I exclaimed that the midgets were so cute!, he reprimanded me for: 1. classifying people by their size, and 2. judging people by their size. These were both valid points. I felt ashamed of myself, as I often do in dreams.

*

I am only at my computer at this unholy hour for three reasons: 1. There’s no way I am going to sleep until this migraine goes away, or at least until it is dulled by the migraine medicine I took, 2. I am practicing good “sleep hygiene” by getting out of bed when I can’t sleep so that I don’t start associating the bed with the place I lie around awake and instead reserve it for the place I actually sleep, and 3. My computer desk is in front of a large window, and supposedly exposure to bright light in the morning helps regulate one’s sleep-wake cycle.

The problem with reason #3 is that I live in the Seattle area. This means there is rarely bright light, as is the case this morning. The sky almost always falls somewhere between the color of wet cement and Crest toothpaste — and I am talking about the old-school kind of Crest toothpaste, not the new azure and turquoise gel variants. Not exactly bright. Or light. Seattle is definitely not the right place to live if you have sleep issues and rely on the sun to help keep your internal clock functioning correctly.

*

I’ve stolen my husband’s pajama pants and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I need all the comfort I can get right now.

*

There were other dreams, too. Crowded places and my trying to navigate through all the people while holding a large soda in each hand. Seeing people from high school who haven’t aged at all since high school, as if they’d been deep frozen all these years and thawed out only to annoy me in my dreams. How awkward it was running into them and being (nearly) old enough to be their mother.

*

For me, the migraine starts at the back of my head and seems to plunge deep into my posterior fossa then come out in a large swath across my forehead. Imagine a plane of pain slicing through my brain and being intersected by another plane of pain that lies flat against my forehead.

My neurologist thinks all my recent symptoms (the paresthesia, numbness, fatigue, sensitive hearing, vision problems — have I mentioned there are vision problems?) could be caused by this migraine. Atypical migraine, she says. A relatively rare variant.

She thinks I might be having waves of migraines that are giving me these symptoms nearly nonstop. Apparently the symptoms from one of these migraines can last for several days. So if you have two of them a week, you are pretty much hosed 24/7. This is just one possibility the neurologist is exploring. But I have to say I’m getting tired of the exploration. I want answers. An answer. The answer.

*

Jon just woke up. He has realized that I’ve taken his pajama pants. Fortunately, he’s not making me give them back.

*

I never said my posts would be interesting.

*

This getting-out-of-bed-when-you-can’t-sleep-thing is for the birds. Now I am wide awake and I have this blasted migraine, which I am forced to experience in my wide-awake state. Who came up with the phrase “sleep hygiene” anyway? I’m not wild about the term. Makes me feel like I am being dirty if I don’t follow the sleep hygiene rules. And not dirty in a good way, but dirty in a dirty, sleepless way.

*

One last thing. At my new job, the convention is to use terminal commas and two spaces after punctuation. Can I just tell you how frustrating that is for me? Some people would not be bothered by style issues like this, but I find myself thinking about it often and bristling at the thought every time. Whenever I have to insert an additional space after a period, I feel a bit nauseated. Not unlike how I feel now, as this migraine is doing its bad work on my body.

*

Note: I don’t support branding of cats or any other animals. It’s simply how the dream went down. I also do not support classifying or judging people based on their size. Again, it’s the dream, not me.

Outside it’s the same bad luck, every two or three seconds a catastrophe happens to someone, goes unnoticed by someone else. When the helicopters flew over and the sirens started, I had no idea my neighbor’s house had caught fire. I went on weeding, another uneventful afternoon.

We walked by the house later, saw the caution tape and everything inside charred. Holes where windows had been. A black film over yellow wallpaper. Firefighters moving slowly between the house and the fire engine.

It would be dishonest of me to tell you I didn’t think of myself, and feel lucky.

*

Weeds in the backyard have doubled in length. Their roots hold the soil, misshapen pale hands. I drive in the shovel, remove each weed in its entirety, not so they won’t grow back but so I can see the delicate roots, how they taper then fray like old gauze. Nothing should be so white and vulnerable.

*

It’s like the feeling of being on a carnival ride, but in my feet, she tells me. She presses the toes of her right foot into the arch of her left foot, hard. This relieves the feeling to some extent, she says. She sits this way for some time. It also helps to lie on my stomach and hang my feet off the bed.