Fault Lines

Fault Lines

The pain of a mild dysautonomic storm is a constant, grating, pounding friction, that if you do not manage in time will turn severe in a moments notice. On paper, today shouldn't be a total loss. The symptoms aren't catastrophic, but they are entirely debilitating all the same. It is a quiet undercurrent of exhausting physical pain that keeps my body locked in a state of high alert, hijacking the energy I need just to think, let alone create.

When the storm hits, the distance between my brain and my hands feels miles wide. I sit down to write, looking for the usual release, but my nervous system refuses to cooperate. The physical mechanics of typing have turned into a chaotic battle. I can’t stop twitching; a sudden, sharp jerk pulls my fingers away from the home row, leaving trailing errors across the page.

Then comes the shivering. It is a deep, internal chill that leaves me cold from the inside out, a reminder that my body has lost the ability to regulate its own basic systems. Underneath the cold is the constant, fine shaking. My hands tremble against the desk, turning the simple act of striking a single key into a frustrating test of precision.

Every sentence is a fight against my own misfiring nerves. I have to wait out the tremors, correct the typos caused by the twitching, and push through the physical exhaustion of a body that feels like it’s vibrating at a broken frequency. It breaks my natural rhythm and stalls my thoughts. Yet, even with the shaking and the fatigue, I keep forcing the words onto the screen. It is slow and painful, but pushing through the static is the only way to take back a piece of my own day.

And I am not getting a break from this one any time soon .