THE DRAGON creeps, unseen, into the deep caves of Basal Ganglia, the uncharted region of my being. It licks its toxic claws, content to bide its time. It stalks, staring, silent and toys with me, its prey. A slight signal it conveys. Composed I carry on. I sense a stirring; shiver some, aroused now, what is its ploy?
Then abruptly, boldly manifest, it snarls. Its phantom claws entwine my neck. I twitch and tremble, turn my head, then utilize a sensory-tactic, touch.
‘Ah, relief,’ I sigh. ‘I’ll disregard the dragon, to halt its demeaning deeds.’ Riled, it writhes, claws extend, destruction its intent. Seized! It tightens its grip around my neck. I am squeezed, shaken and swivelled. I cannot look it in the eye. It mocks me. Nerves are frayed. I cower, by yet another ploy dismayed. This involuntary twisting is too much. I employ my trick. I touch. I hate this hideous state. I’ve lost all restraint. I’m afraid of this horrid fiend.
‘Did the dragon attack without provocation? Did I cause its irritation?’
Questions tumble round and round. ‘It won’t defeat me,’ I determine. But, Oh! So potent is the adjunct’s poison. I am seized again and again, and again. ‘Spasms. Ugh!’ My head turns. I touch. But my futile attempts to fool the tyrant fail. I tense.
Others note and confront. ‘Recruit reinforcements, remove your foe.’
No! I’ll survive. I’ll not surrender. It’ll slink away.’ But alas, the dragon refuses to retreat and I struggle on in vain until – I scream, ‘I’m so broken. I’m so sad, and oft-times, I’m very mad.’ Apprehensive and ashamed, I clamber to the clinic. ‘MRI,’ the doc demands. I lay upon bed in ungainly gown, head fixed, and by cylindrical tube contained – alone! Bing bing bing. Thump-bump-thump. Rata-tat-tat. Tentative, I breathe in and out. Mustn’t move. Time stands still – released!
Doc confirms, the dragon has most certainly crossed into my control centre, and captured my cells. It contaminates my chemical-brew constricting muscles, confusing cognition-data, and sapping strength.
‘Is there a contributing cause, past health issues, or an inherited gene?’ I cry. ‘No! It is classified – A neurological movement disorder and is comrade to equally sinister creatures, and manifests as a postural tremor. No weapon can mortally wound, not a single antagonist restrain it, though, for a short time, a shot of Botox might tranquilize, it is not expected to retreat.’
Wounded and weary, I wave the white flag, and write an accord peace! ‘Acceptance! Ah! Muscles Behaving Badly, I now know – and I’m not alone.’
DYSTONIA is the dragon’s name. Yet, Dystonia does not define me. It is but a whit, not the whole. I assert attributes beside. I regulate my lifestyle to reduce the tyrant’s stride. And, though my performance lacks perfection l plan to persevere. I obtain and offer assistance and draw on my inner reserve – faith!
This story is penned to promote awareness and applaud the analysts’ search. My hope – to celebrate – ‘Neuro-concepts have crushed the Dystonia dragon’s curse!’ V.C. ©