My wife is a pediatric occupational therapist. She works with all kinds of kids and knows a lot about neurology. She tells me I have “sensory issues” and she could have helped me with them as a child. Actually, she says she could help me with them now, if I were willing. I’m thinking about it. What I do know is that my hypersensitivity as a child really impacted my life in both positive and negative ways. Take music, for example. I hear things in music that others don’t, like bees see colors that are beyond what our eyes can process. The positive side of this is that I am a good musician. The down side is that I can’t filter it out. Just the other day I was in the grocery store to pick up three items. Several times I had to stop and gather my thoughts, because I lost track of where I was and what I was there for. It’s not dementia. It was the fucking music that was playing in the background. It’s always been a problem for me. I’m supposed to be choosing a loaf of bread and all I can think about is the fact that they opted to use trombone for that musical phrase. Add narrow aisles and lots of people and we have all the ingredients for a psychological breakdown. I avoid stores and other crowded places. I have been to one or two big rock concerts in my life. The only way I survived was by allowing myself to break from reality and float in a borderline dream state. Utterly overwhelming and horrible. Even when it was Springsteen. If it hadn’t been for the beer and weed I would probably have made a break for it like I did at the haunted house. I have never understood how “normal” people can enjoy the things they do.

I went with a buddy to just one high school dance when I was in tenth grade. As you would guess, it was nightmarish. I tried to “dance” one dance, but the sight of all the other kids having such a great time as I wondered where the exits were made me sick to my stomach. I didn’t understand how guys got the courage to ask a girl to dance, much less on a date. My lame attempts with Trisha and Tana stand out in my memory because I had finally developed enough self-confidence to make a move, but the humiliation and remorse sent me reeling back into my cave. It’s important to note that all this was happening in the immediate aftermath of John the Cat’s death. And while I do recall sobbing myself to sleep one night soon after the tragedy, they were bitter tears and it didn’t help. I mentioned earlier that John kept the nightmares away. Now they were back, and it was brutal. I mean the content of the nightmares was often brutal. The worst involved coming upon a cat that looked like John and seeing that it was mortally injured. As it cried out in pain I knew the only thing to do was end its misery. So I grabbed a shovel to do the deed, but you know how in dreams sometimes it’s like you’re moving through molasses. I tried, but while each blow made things worse, the cat wouldn’t die. Being torn between horror and frustration caused me to wake up. I have had variations of that nightmare many times since. Other nightmares involved fist fights, again where I could barely move, or finding myself on a battlefield with bullets and bombs flying, stark naked with nowhere to run. Or being chased by a demon and, my escape being blocked, forced to turn and confront the monster only to see that — as if to mock me — it was wearing the face of Walt, twisted snarl and all.

All this talk of nightmares and dissociative states of mind brings up a crucial memory. I was seven years old, I think. We were camping in the redwoods. In the middle of the night I had a nightmare. In my dream I am wandering around the campground in the dark, barefoot and lost. Then there is a bear, which sees me and begins pursuit. I’m trying to run away but — molasses of course. I see a camper trailer up ahead and I make a bee line for the door. I feel the bear right behind me as I grab the handle of the screen door and try to turn the knob. It’s locked. I’m dead. So I snap awake, only to find myself standing exactly where I was in the dream. But now I’m awake and I can see that there is no bear. Completely freaked out, I begin banging on the door and screaming. Some old guy comes to the door saying, “What is it?” He opens the door and sees me, knows I must be lost. I had been sleepwalking again. He was kind and reassuring as he helped me back to our tent about fifty feet away. I found my sleeping bag and went back to sleep, my family completely unaware of the incident.

I told that story to illustrate what it feels like whenever I am triggered and begin to dissociate: panic is near and it’s hard to discern what is real and what is exaggerated by my imagination. If it’s a physical threat I might react violently before I even think. If it’s some kind of emergency my mind will snap into a hyper-alert state, completely depersonalized, as if some other grownup has taken over and I am just a spectator. If I am overwhelmed by sadness and grief, I simply lose track of myself entirely. It’s like a fugue state, but I still know who and where I am. Have you ever walked into a room and just stood there because you forgot why you were there? For me it’s like I have forgotten who I am and why am am alive — why anybody would want to be alive. I am completely detached from all feelings and motivations. Other times I am debilitated by strong emotions, but I can’t bring to mind any particular reason why I would be having them: the connection between the emotions and their source has been ruptured.

I remember one time when I was thirteen, not long after Walt left. For no apparent reason I decided to leave the house without my glasses on. That means the whole world would be a blur and I wouldn’t feel safe at all. But I just wandered down the street, then over to the next block where a busy street cut through the center of town. It was a residential neighborhood with nice houses, but there was plenty of traffic. I wondered what would happen if I just laid down on the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the street, like I was passed out. Would anybody notice or care? If so, I would pretend to be unresponsive. So I did it. Lying in the sun feeling the cool grass against my cheek, I listened as cars whizzed by, letting go. Giving up. Refusing to go on with anything. A car pulled up. I heard the door close followed by footsteps. High heeled shoes? A lady’s voice: “Young man, are you ok? What’s wrong?” I refused to move, feigned sleep. She touched my shoulder, “Are you all right? Do you need help?” I suddenly felt bad for her. She was so kind and concerned! I opened my eyes and saw a nicely-dressed, conservative-looking woman with gray hair looking at me with a worried expression. I said something like, “I must have fallen asleep.” She probably thought I was drunk or on something. If she knew the truth, that this was a cry for help, I don’t know what she would have done. I desperately wished she could just take me with her, away, anywhere. Give me a new life. Sheepishly, I stood up, brushed myself off and headed home. I never mentioned this little experiment to anyone or reflected upon it much, but it felt like I was wanting to end my life, psychologically, but unwilling to inflict any violence on myself to achieve it.

John’s death left me empty and numb. Unsurprisingly, the dark and cold of December have always been devastating to my mood. I listened to music and read books. I couldn’t feel my own emotions so I immersed myself in the emotions of others. I read short stories by Kurt Vonnegut, a gothic romance “My Cousin Rachel” by Daphne du Maurier, “A Bridge Too Far” by Cornelius Ryan, and — at my sister’s suggestion — “The Left Hand of Darkness” by Ursula K. Le Guin. My crush on Trisha became obsessive and I began talking about it with my therapist. I told him I was having trouble wanting to live. I was going through the motions of my very busy life and doing my best to mask the existential crisis I was in. There was a bright spot, though. Trisha wanted to audition for the part of Ado Annie in the Spring musical, “Oklahoma!” and she asked me to help her rehearse it. We met several times in a practice room at school. I played, she sang, I coached. She could really belt out a tune! I felt there was no way she wouldn’t get the part and I am afraid she might have been convinced by my enthusiasm, biased though it was. But she didn’t get the part. Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered how good she was, she wouldn’t have gotten the part. Our drama director, my dad’s old friend and comedy partner, casted the leads before he even picked the plays: the auditions were just perfunctory. Or maybe a good opportunity for kids to practice auditioning, but the die was already cast. My hopes of a rekindling with her were dashed when she seemed to withdraw from me in shame. I felt like I had let her down.

January came and rehearsals began for the show. I was the rehearsal pianist. In my ten-part thread I wrote about how busy my schedule was at that point: jazz band before school, symphonic and marching bands in the morning, jazz ensemble during lunch, music theory last period. After school I would ride my bike across town to play the piano for voice lessons, then back to school for musical theater rehearsal. It was brutal, but it was also addictive. Whenever I was playing an instrument it forced my attention to a focus. My breathing was regulated, the time was structured, and my nerves were soothed by the sounds. Music was my medicine, and I think it saved my life. It also provided a ready-made social life. My brother Dan, a year older than me, had been mostly invisible at school. But his friend, Kit, had been cast as Will the cowboy (the lead) and he convinced my brother to try out. Turns out my brother could really dance! All told, there were about one hundred and fifty people involved in the production when you count cast, crew, and musicians. It was the first time my brother and I had overlapping social circles, and the first time many of my friends learned that I even had an older brother. When we both starting going to cast parties a whole new dimension opened up in my life.