When I re-enter the city, the kind of quiet, low-sensory environment my body needs in order to get the kind of rest it needs disappears.
There is no true rest for me here. More people, more cars, more lights, more sounds, more obligations, more people to see before you disappear to the island, more of everything. Except peace. Except silence. Except rest.
It's why I'm torn. The need to be around family while we're all still here together vs. the need to look after myself so that this brutal suffering diminishes. It's an impossibly challenging catch-22 to live within.
But what I need desperately while my body is currently alight with a cacophony of pain signals is sensory deprivation. I need there to not be light or sound. I need to not be around people. Or computers. Or phones.
I need a float.
In a tank, at Float House, who has become my second home in Vancouver, is where I know I need to be right now.
That tank is the only place you can really go to disconnect from the world, the city, the noise, and chaos. This busy place is too busy for a person with Central Sensitivity Syndrome. But to be able to slip into the warm water and total darkness, surrounded by silence, now that is BLISS. It is saving grace to someone whose central nervous system is raw and frayed and going haywire.
I need to get in that tank. The only issue is getting this struggling body there and making it through the showers.
But I need to get in that tank.