It seems so very difficult for people to understand how we with MS can be fairly functional one day and so spaced out or otherwise unplugged the next. Of course, this is just as difficult for we ourselves to figure out, so I suppose it is not surprising that the disease can seem schizoid to others. Perhaps when we feel well and competent, mentally and physically, we unwittingly foster unrealistic expectations, not only in others but in ourselves.
I think I shall never get used to waking up in the morning and feeling as though is my body and soul had been taken over by a giant sloth or by one of these eyeless fish that live in the dark at the deepest depths of the ocean. How much sense will this make to others? I feel rather prehistoric today. I feel like an amoeba.
How to describe the curtain of dimness drawn by MS? It is like walking knee deep in flood water. An all encompassing trudginess has consumed the form and character of being, a certain cotton of obscurity has transformed the fluidity of light and air, and one finds himself struggling as in a dream, to move, to walk, to think, to speak. It is as if one has been rolled up in a carpet and left against the wall.
Such a day is this day. Sluggish, fuzzy, vaguely worrisome. Perhaps I am a clam, or a snail, or a hermit crab. Yet surely not a man