At least it’s not compulsive hand-washing!

HypergraphIa?

HypergraphIa?

I hope someday Dr. Mark Agostini of the neurology faculty at UTSouthwestern Medical School in Dallas gets into some real research about the relationship is some people’s minds among music, writing, and seizures. There’s lots of research about all of that, but I want him to do it because I know him and I want him to study me.

I MUST NOT write this morning. I have 37 essays of 1200 words that must be evaluated before two PM today, and I have to go home to take care of my cats during my 11AM to 2PM break and call three different doctors and insurance companies and my bank and get together the supporting documents to send at the last minute so I don’t lose the $1000 left in my FLEX fund, Oh, and a fourth doctor so I will be able to move without pain before too much longer. Which is more important, money or pain?

I used to have a compulsion to count people in a room. Having a meeting and want to know how Danish to buy? Ask me. Want to know how many minutes each person can speak in a crowded 12-step meeting? Ask me. Well, Dr. Mary Bret (also of UTSouthwestern) fixed that. A little higher dose of Prozac and some Lamotrigen and that necessity seems to have been somewhat lifted from my shoulders.

But here I am at 5:10AM writing this when I absolutely must be grading papers. Do you think I’m just undisciplined? Just determined to be famous for writing this wonderful prose? Yeah. Right! my favorite instance when two positives make a negative. Want to know some more? Don’t get me started.  Back, boy.

Finish this! Now! Essays to read.

I want you to read it. I want it to make sense. I want to put it out into the blogosphere. But whether or not any of that happens, I have to write this—whatever it is. I can’t not do it at this moment. If I stop now, I won’t be able to do anything else.???????????????????????????????

I’m pretty sure I used the picture of me in my “Mary Girard” T-shirt here in the last few weeks, but I can’t find it. I don’t remember what symptoms her husband reported to convince the psychiatrist she was insane so he could get her money; I remember only that students in my music classes at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston performed it, and the father of one of them, my best friend, created these wonderful T-shirts of the title of the play. I’m not insane, of course, but there are certainly days when this seems like an apt T-shirt for me to wear.

Like today. I’m so charged up I didn’t need any coffee. But all I can do is sit here and write this stuff that you will think makes no sense. Well, it doesn’t.

Hypergraphia, thy name is Harold. Gotta do it. Gotta write whether it makes sense or not. I know sometimes (like today) my mind is probably tricking me into thinking I can’t grade the student essays until I do this—because my mind knows my gut doesn’t want to do that. Then how do you explain the last 45 days of non-stop blogging?

Holy Mackerel, Andy! A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do! I had the first three paragraphs written before the coffee was brewed!

Oh, and by the way, this was going to be little essay on pain. Hip pain. Back pain. I did something fun yesterday that I (if I were a rational person) would not have done if I’d thought it through for 30 seconds before I did it. And by bedtime, the weeks-long constant pain in my right hip (most of the time low-level, but with the wrong move high-level and really annoying) had spread to my left—actually across my whole lower back and butt. I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep, Thank you, Ambien.

The pain, by the way, is the result of—I’m sure you’ll find this in one of those 45 other postings here—one of those old man falls in the bathtub. When I fall, I can get up—so far.

Where the pain is.

Where the pain is.

So here I am writing all kinds of stuff no one should say about himself anywhere, much less in cyberspace where he can never take it back.
But if you want to know what happens to old guys who have TLEpilepsy and other weird neurological weirdnesses, just read this. You’ve probably read my stuff like this before, so it’s old news. But think for a minute. What’s gonna happen to me when I’m 85 and in the “home” and have to get up and do this before the nurses’ aides wanna be up and coping with old queens? It’s something to ponder, isn’t it?

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