A Madness Shared by Two Aug20

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A Madness Shared by Two

Folie à deux

The doctor has given Lilith so much medication for her headache she’s almost comatose. He prescribes Valium for anxiety and when I try to dissuade him he assures me she is just overly anxious.

“Happens all the time in geriatrics. We can’t explain it.”

She is in the beginning stages of a stroke and he’s missed it. It will manifest strongly in the next few days.

He sends her home in an ambulance as I can’t manage her alone when she is this heavily drugged.  The ambulance driver rouses her putting her in bed and she wants to talk.  It is well past midnight and I’m exhausted, but I drag a chair into her room and sit by her bed while she drifts in and out of sleep.  She says her head still hurts even after all the drugs and I wonder again at her diagnosis.

She brings up old wounds, my wounding of her, never the other way around, and I try to soothe her, but I realize I’m noncommittal when she talks about my treatment of her.  She speaks of letters I wrote her that described my hurt and asked her to stop.  She said she didn’t like her parents very much but she never sent them ‘hate mail’. I laugh to myself and think, maybe you should have.

I don’t have regrets about the way I defended myself from her, only regrets that sometimes I didn’t fight hard enough.  I realize I have no absolution for her and I feel that is her goal tonight.

As she quiets and, I hope, sleeps, I try to offer her light and healing – a mental/emotional prayer for her relief. I don’t like her, I’ll admit, but she has suffered for months and I’d like for it to stop. 

In the past I’ve tried looking at auras and in low light I’ve been successful if I ‘let’ it happen. I’m curious if her aura will reflect her illness in colors. I relax the focus of my eyes and let them drift over her form. As my focus fades I’m aware of hundreds of things crawling over her.  I look at the bed covers that do not touch her and they are still. But beneath the covers, the length of her body is covered with crawling, writhing things.

I flash back to an image of a dead rat I came upon suddenly. I’d been mesmerized by the movements caused by the maggots that had taken it over from the inside. Horrified, I concentrate on her face.

This is where I’ve had the most success with full auras.  An aura isn’t a haze around one’s edges, but a field that envelopes the entire body so that if you view it, it can be seen from the front or rear, or side. The aura of someone in deep meditation is a glory to behold, rich and full of color, it can hide one’s face so that all the observer sees is the beauty of the colors, no features at all.

Looking at my mother’s face, I’m not surprised the colors are grey and black, lusterless colors. She has been very ill. Vibrancy would be shocking unless she had the soul of a saint and I imagine that might still shine. Her face, which seems to break thru the aura every now and then, is monstrous.  It stretches and contorts into something so hideous I find it hard to describe.

Her body still appears to be crawling with something equally horrible and I watch only a few moments until I just can’t anymore.

If I’m hallucinating – placing my impression of her on her visage – I’m seeing something that I’ve hidden even from myself.

Months later I’m still unsettled by that night.