I fell out of bed. Don't believe the rumors that I fell on the floor and bumped my head. Those are lies. Slanders. I fell out about halfway, just enough to wrench my back as my body twisted half in, half out of the bed. Now how could I, a man who has successfully slept for 12,000 nights at least, suddenly fall out of the bed? It actually has to do with #ThePark, and it’s one of the things that scares me the most about the disease.

To grossly and probably inaccurately oversimplify things, The Park is a miscommunication between the brain and body in a wide variety of ways. One of those is something I call vivid dreaming. I'm not sure if that's actually what it's called, but that's what I call it. It's where your brain, and again this is just my sort of googling-not-even-using-an-AI-search-enginge understanding of it, doesn't tell your body that you're asleep, so your body acts out your dreams because it thinks you're still awake.

This is a problem when dreams become violent or physical. Last night, I was having a dream where a pompous British man was accosting me, so I decided to kick him, as one does when accosted by a rude Briton. Apparently, it was some sort of Xtreme Chun-Li/Chuck Norris/Lorenzo Lamas massive roundhouse kick. My body, not realizing that I was dreaming, also kicked, a kick so hard, it kicked myself out of bed.

Normally, I use a 25-pound king-sized weighted blanket, which I think helps when these situations happen. It's tough to kick through 25 pounds of blanket. But last night I decided to wash my blanket, and it wasn't quite dry when I went to bed. So I slept without the blanket and suffered the consequences. Always sleep with your weighted blanket, folks. Always.

This goes back to one of my great fears of The Park: that through the disease, I'll end up hurting someone. I wonder what would happen if there were someone around me when one of these fits happens. What could happen if I'm in a hotel or traveling without access to a weighted blanket to restrain me? What would happen if I'm camping alone in the woods?

Even something as simple as sleep can end up hurting me or someone else because of this illness. I’m pretty sure I’ve kicked the boys in my sleep, but they bite/scratch me when I'm sleeping, so I think that evens out.

These vivid dreams are the one symptom of The Park that I faithfully keep track of. I don’t know how often I actually have these dreams (does the weighted blanket keep me from waking up and realizing what’s happening?), but I always write about this in my little journal whenever it happens because I think it's one of the scarier things about Parkinson's. It's the sort of Nightmare on Elm Street version of the illness. Your dreams coming to haunt you, to hurt you, and to hurt those who might be around you when you're sleeping.

It's a nightmare, but unlike a horror movie, there are no half-naked co-eds partying with you. Unlike a horror movie, there is no killing the villain. There's no sending Jason off into space (however he got there, I don't know. I assume he was exiled). There's nothing like that. This won't go away. This can't be stopped. There is no cure. No treatment other than piling heavier and heavier weighed blankets on me, pressing me into submission like a sleepy Giles Corey. This is my fate for the rest of my life: to go to bed each night wondering if I'll punt the lil goblin across the room while I'm sleeping.

It seems like only three years ago I was able to walk in the woods with ease. In fact, it was three years ago. I walked in the woods all the time. Then things started getting harder, I started getting  slower, and walking through the woods became more tiring. I thought that I was getting old, that I was getting fat, that my knee was acting up on me, but it wasn't any of those things. It was #ThePark showing its signs.

Now, I very rarely walk in the woods. It's hard for me to negotiate the trails. I have to keep a close eye on where I step. One of the fun parts of walking through the woods is looking around and seeing what's in the woods. But now I have to watch my step to avoid roots and sticks and branches and rocks and other things that my foot could clip as I'm Frankenstein clomping through the woods. Yet here I am, 13 months after being diagnosed, in the woods at a state park, scaring deer and trying to get mauled by an alligator.

I haven't seen an alligator, and I'm already exhausted after barely making it halfway around the lake. I probably should have gone hiking before I set up my tent, my gazebo, my cot, and chased a bee out of the gazebo. I should have drank more water instead of just drinking coke.

That's all I've had today. Just a coke. And yes, I know you're saying, but Shawn, isn't coke nature's water? And yes, yes it is. But sometimes when it's really hot outside, you need regular water to amplify the power of the coke. The life-giving energy of Coca-Cola Classic. I've had my coke. I've had my water chaser. Now I'm wandering through the woods, hoping I'm going in the right direction.

Hills. Why are there hills? This is supposed to be the low country. Low as in no hills. And here I am, walking up a hill. Exhausted. Wondering how long it is until I get to the  other side of the lake. That's kind of the biggest challenge of walking with Parkinson's. It's not that I'm always clumsy. Sometimes I'm clumsy, when I'm not paying attention. I don't always trip over cords or seams in the carpet or sticks or roots or stuff like that. But the thing is, when I get tired, like I am right now, I slow down even more. And my walk goes from a steady clomp to a plod. It's a cumbersome lumbering. I'm endlessly plodding through the woods, feeling like George O'Brien in Sunrise.

There are benches throughout the trail, always at the top of the hill. But I know if I sit down, I'll have a hard time getting back up again. So onward I plod, hoping that my slip-on Skechers with soles made of Goodyear tires or something like that will give me the traction I need to finish this accursed hike around the lake.

Why am I doing this? To get the attention of someone who probably doesn't even think about me anymore? To prove that I am still healthy? Out of boredom and a desire to be alone and just read and write? I don't know. I hiked the entire Beaver Trail and I barely caught a glimpse of a beaver. A fleeing beaver, running away to its little beaver hideaway as it heard me arrive. No beaver for your boy today, only exhaustion and pain. As it always will be.

#1000WordsOfSummer

I don't know if they are, but it feels like it. When I'm walking. When I'm trying to sit still. Especially when I'm eating. I feel that everyone in the room sees me dropping food on myself. Spilling the spaghetti. Dropping my Coke. French fries on the floor. Things of that nature.

You could say I'm paranoid. You could say that I'm seeing things that aren't really there. But it's how I feel. Because it wasn't always like this. I've always been a thoroughly forgettable dude. Tall, but not unusually so. Unattractive, but in a nondescript way.

But now, thanks to #ThePark, I think I stand out more. I shake. I clomp around like a Frankenstein. I wasn't big into going out to eat before, but now I rarely ever go out. Even when I travel, I've started getting takeout more often than sitting in a restaurant.

I feel awkward in public, more so than when I was just a weird goon looming in the background. But now, I can't just joke and say, oh, I'm just a weird, dude. I'm just a goofy goon. Now, feel I have to explain myself.

There are times when I wish I had a little card that I could hand out or a sign that I could place next to my table at a restaurant that explains that I have Parkinson's and that is why I'm spilling food all over myself. It's not because I am a baby. I'm a grown ass man. With a shitty disease.

Again, I am not a baby. Yes, I am messy, sloppy, and covered in spaghetti sauce. But I am NOT a baby.

When I am covered in sauce, or when my hand shakes so much I can't read the poem I'm holding, or when my phone starts buzzing to remind me to take my meds, I feel obligated to explain what's happening, that if I don't explain things, all people will see is me shaking or spilling or clomping around without swinging my arms.

Whenever I explain my situation, people are usually surprised. My dad didn't even believe me when I first got diagnosed. Parkinson's associated as an old person's disease and I'm not old enough. Most of the time it’s only my right hand that shakes. I don't fall down. I very rarely stumble, although I did trip over a cord today.

It confuses people. Because I'm not your typical Parkinson's patient in their eyes. I feel weird explaining the complexity of the disease because I'm not a real doctor and I know I come across as pedantic.

I don't know how much detail to go into. Do I tell them it's a dopamine deficiency and that my drugs encourage compulsive behavior, so I spend too much time online shopping? That I don't want to go to Vegas anymore because I'm afraid I'd lose my house on a video poker machine in the high limits room at the Park MGM?

Do I tell them about the other weird symptoms? That sometimes I talk in my sleep. That I wake up screaming and kicking. That I don't poop every day anymore. Is that weird? Can I get into a discussion about how often people poop and how my poop cycle has changed now that I have Parkinson's? I think that would be weird. But it's a serious issue because sometimes I don't poop and then I poop a lot.

I don't know if I should tell them how difficult it can be for me to do certain things. I don't like to wear a tie anymore because it's tough for me to tie a tie in the morning before my meds have kicked in. Putting on socks is just a pain. Like who invented socks? It's too hard. Why can't they be more simple? Why are they so tight? I even got a little device that is supposed to help me pull my socks on, but I can't figure out how to use the thing. It's too complicated. I think I put the sock on it and then I slide my foot through it or something like that. I don't know. It confounds me. So I buy certain sock brands because I know that they're easier to get on. Polo socks are nice. Versace socks are garbage. If you're reading this, Versace: make better socks. Your socks are trash. I hate them. But I'll still wear them when I want to look extra bougie.

It's tough not knowing how much detail to go into. I don't want to sound like I'm complaining. I don't want to sound like I'm asking people to pity me. Because in fact, I want the exact opposite, I just want them to understand what's going on. But not to have to say, oh let me help you with that. Or do you need help with this?

I don't need help carrying my plate. I might almost drop it, but I generally don't drop it. I just almost drop it. I can still move boxes. I can still lift tables. I can still move furniture and do all the stuff that I became good at when I toiled at the mall or as the elementary school trash man. I can still do most things. I just don't like to eat spaghetti in restaurants. Because it gets all over me. And I don't want people looking at me, thinking I'm a baby. I'm not a baby. I'm a grown man.

#1000WordsOfSummer

I have an email job. During the school year, I’ll visit schools and work with teachers, but it’s still an email job. Even when I’m in schools, a large chunk of my time is spent responding to emails or sharing links to documents through emails or deleting emails from salespeople who think that I actually have a say in how the district spends money. During summer break, I still work, and I spend even more time at the computer. And this summer, I’m finding that email jobs and #ThePark don’t mix.

I can’t type on laptop keyboards anymore. The keys are too light and flat, and I make too many mistakes when typing. That’s why I got my beloved tiny keyboard. But the tiny keyboard is a travel keyboard. Typing on it for too long causes too much tension in my neck and shoulders. Part of this is probably due to my bad posture, but the tinyness of the keyboard also makes it difficult to open up and relax while typing. When I’m out and about, it’s fine because I’m not typing for long stretches. But in the summer, when I’m at my desk for 100-hour days, the tiny keyboard is just too tiny. So I did what anyone whose meds encourage compulsive behavior would do: I spent too much money online shopping and bought a split mechanical keyboard kit.

I have been practicing on the split keyboard for over a week, and Reader, I still cannot type. The placement of my hands feels more comfortable, but the struggles I’m having learning to type on this thing is causing more tension than typing on the tiny keyboard for an extended period of time does. Although I do type slightly faster on the split keyboard, 49 wpm vs 44 wpm on the tiny keyboard. But that’s still way too slow for someone who spends all day typing. T And the splitness of the split keyboard has shown me how much worse the right side of my body perform. It makes me wonder how much longer I’ll be able to do an email job.

Now I know you’re probably saying, “But Shawn, what about voice typing?” Voice typing isn’t ready for prime time yet, especially considering that #ThePark can lead to a softer voice and slurred speech. My hope is that AI will actually do something useful and make voice recognition and context-aware voice control more effective. Either that or I figure out how to type using just my left hand on half of a split keyboard. Hmm, that sounds like something I can skip sleeping to read about and eventually spend too much money on.