Layers of Being

By Lila Tesa

Auden has dedicated himself to learning what happened to his grandfather, even if no one thinks it was real.
His story is about giving ourselves permission.
To claim the boundaries we need.
To experience anger, or whatever we might find.
To take up the space that will let us form the shape of our lives.
This book picks up where Strands of Shadow left off, Auden being the son of the earlier book's main character. Either book can, I believe, be read on its own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lila Tesa
• Release date: Oct 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005016746

Lila Tesa

Between atypical wiring, a history of trauma and the maze of mental illness, I've spent a great deal of my life in various semi-progressive layers of awareness that my experience of the world around me is not always the same as that of others. My ways of processing, of perceiving, of experiencing, they often seem to diverge from the norm, at least to the degree that a norm can be thought of as something that exists. But how to ever be sure of the details of this? We can never fully know how other people are internally experiencing their lives, so thorough comparisons (or contrasts) are generally difficult to formulate. It's a compelling subject to me though, because we so often find ourselves having to interact with other people, and I often find myself desperately wondering, "What's going on in there? How is it different when it's different from mine?" I don't know that I'll ever have answers that are fully satisfying to me. I don't know that I'm capable of truly understanding and embracing whatever the neurotypical reality looks like. What I've found that I can do, though, is to deeply explore my own internal terrain, and this turns out to be a favorite activity for me. For years I've been able to do this only in conversation and letters - when I've tried to generate fiction, my mind would slam shut on me. But this past year I finally found a way through. The characters in Strands of Shadow are fully fictional, as are all the events. The way of processing thoughts and experiences, though, are all my own: same brain, different medium.

Book preview

Layers

of

Being

by Lila Tesa

Copyright 2021 Lila Tesa

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you know someone for whom you feel this book would resonate, please restrict yourself to sending them a link to the author's smashwords page. Thank you.

Table of Contents

copyright

note to the reader

the book

contact

Note to the reader

This was the book I had been planning to write when I wound up writing what became my first novel, Strands of Shadow. I think of this work as a sequel of sorts, but I believe that the two could be read in either order.

1

Auden stared at his grandfather's papers, feeling the strength drain out of his body. He didn't want to let that precious scrawl out of his sight, but wasn't sure he would be able to make it up the stairs without faltering, so he decided to put them back in the envelope to keep them safe. He executed this task with an unsteady numbness, running on autopilot as his mind became increasingly diffuse. He drifted up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door behind him and sitting on his bed. He took the papers out again and stared at them, not reading but just taking in their presence.

What could it have possibly been? Did something real happen to the old man? Or did he have some kind of a breakdown? It seems like it couldn't have all been in his head, because at least to some degree his grandmother shared the experience. Unless his grandfather made that part up. She definitely seemed like something had messed her up, but that could have been any of a number of things, including the life-long trial of living with someone who'd had a psychotic break. But then, Mom said they were both changed after that day, so I don't know. It seemed impossible, the kind of thing his grandfather had been trying to describe, but the idea that it was all in his head didn't feel very satisfying either.

He read the papers again. He read about the abrupt experience when it started. Then the pain and all the overwhelming sensations the old man had been unable to fully describe. Perceiving changes in his surroundings - differences between what he was seeing and how he knew them to be, how he was accustomed to them appearing. And alongside that perception, an awareness that this view was only a slice of something larger, a fuller picture that included a whole range of potential attributes, somehow simultaneously.

He thought of his grandfather. That heartbreaking figure, locked away inside somewhere. You could tell he was in there, and there was something strikingly good about him that Auden felt he could almost touch. He didn't want to dismiss him as pathological. He couldn't. He needed to give him a deeper respect than that. Not a superficial gesture, not a kind word coating the surface of disbelief and dismissal, but a genuine conviction that whatever he had experienced that day was real, that he wasn't crazy. The man was without question shaken to his core. He couldn't access many of the functions that most of us execute so easily throughout each day that we don't give them a thought. Staying consistently connected in interaction while we bear the weight of our experiences, we take these things for granted. But maybe we haven't had experiences like his. Maybe this was an entirely different story, a different order of magnitude, as experiences go.

Auden decided to commit to believing his grandfather. Something profound happened that day. He wasn't crazy. Auden wanted to find out what it was. Maybe somehow help him, or maybe feel more connected to him. At very least honor him. He had no idea how, but it began to feel increasingly urgent that he understand what it was that the old man had experienced.

Something more. He kept talking about being something more, of perceiving in a way that went beyond what he could describe. Extending in some elusive way, and yet also remaining in place. What could this mean? And how could he possibly come to see what this was, this thing his grandfather was grasping with such futile urgency to convey?

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and running the words through his mind, trying to imagine the experience, trying to create images, trying to conceive of a way to construct some sort of understanding, or even to recognize some general subject that these hints might suggest, but his mind just kept spinning with nothing to show for it. His grandfather needed someone to see it, he was certain, and no one else seemed to understand this. It was only he who wanted to try, so he had to succeed, and he had no idea of how to even think about these things. He felt as though his grandfather was crying out to him, reaching for a hand to help pull him from this dire place, and he was failing him, the old man was still alone, no one understood.

These thoughts tormented him well past the point where he was too exhausted to think productively, even if he had been able to approach whatever this thing was, which he wasn't. It was a while before he realized that he'd been spinning his mental wheels and dragging his emotions and his self-worth along for the ride. His body was clenched and slightly trembling. He forced himself to release, taking deep breaths and promising to return to this odd project when he had more energy and a fresh mind.

He continued with the deep breathing and some other relaxation exercises until he started to drift into sleep. His legs drew themselves up to his chest and he hugged himself into a little ball.

*****

He awoke to a moment of innocence from his quandary, but then the thoughts and emotions flooded back in. The futility of it all felt clearer to him in his more rested state and he made the decision not to torment himself. He would leave it; he would resume his life as it was. Or he would try.

Thoughts of his grandfather, of the letter, and of what it all could have meant, still crossed his mind at odd times, but he tried not to engage too much with them. He daydreamed a bit more than he used to, and was maybe slightly more on edge sometimes, but he kept it from disrupting his life as well as he was able. He had never had a huge amount of outside interaction, so there weren't a lot of people who would have noticed anyway, but Luna did. She checked in with him during one of their walks.

Are you okay? You seem a little off.

Off?

You seem to slip into your own world more than you used to. And you seem upset.

Upset? Really?

Well, not exactly. I mean, you haven't snapped at me or anything, but you seem sort of distracted, and it's like little things that used to get a laugh out of you don't anymore.

So I'm not laughing at your jokes?

Yeah, pretty much.

Auden was silent for a moment, internally debating with himself about whether to tell her. He felt uneasy but also felt the need to tell someone.

Okay. Ever since we went to meet Mom’s parents, I can’t stop thinking about that experience Granddad had. Like, what was it? Do you have any idea?

I haven’t thought much about it?

You’re kidding.

No. That whole trip was really weird. I thought they were a little scary. I was glad to get a better picture of where Mom’s coming from, but other than that, I guess I just instinctively tried to get some distance from the whole thing.

Wow. It had the opposite effect on me. Drew me in. I felt so bad for Granddad, trapped in this memory, in this need to understand it or maybe find it again. I can’t shake the feeling that he needs my help, that I’ve got to try to do something for him.

What could you possibly do?

I don’t know. Try to figure out what it was maybe.

Auden, the man’s crazy. I know he’s our grandfather, and it can be scary to think about something like that being in our genes, but there’s nothing there. They're just two weird old people who unfortunately had a major effect on our mother when she was growing up.

I don’t think that’s true, that there’s nothing there. He’s in there. He’s sort of paralyzed, but he has feelings and desires. He still feels pain. It nearly silences him, but he made that huge effort to give me those papers.

Too much silence, I think. Where was he when Mom was growing up?

I’m not sure he had a choice about that. It seems like this thing hit him really hard and just took him out.

I just don’t have a good feeling about the whole thing. I’m not inclined to prod the beast.

That’s the thing. I don’t think he’s the beast. I think he’s trapped inside it. It hurts to think about just leaving him there, not trying to help him at all.

I still don’t understand what you think you can do.

I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t anything I can do. But I guess I feel like if I don’t try, if I don’t even put some effort into thinking about it, I feel like that would just kill me. It would hurt to know I just left him there without even attempting to help.

It just doesn’t make any sense to me. I mean, what is there to even think about?

I’m not sure. When I try I don’t get anywhere. But if I think about giving up, I feel too sad.

Maybe it’s something that’s sad at its core. Maybe the sadness is unavoidable.

Maybe.

You’re not going to leave this, are you?

I can’t.

But it was clear that on this topic, Luna wasn’t going to be able to provide her usual support. He couldn’t complain – she’d been so amazing that way for all of their lives, surely she’d have to have some off-limits subjects once in a while. And at least for now, this seemed to be one of them. He needed to continue to explore this idea, but he didn’t want to torture her with it. They walked in silence. It was good to at least have her there.

He kept his thoughts to himself for several weeks, trying to stick with lighter topics, or just listening to whatever Luna had on her mind. He hadn’t gotten anywhere beyond his initial lack of ideas on the subject, so there wasn’t anything new to share anyway.

Then one night he had a dream. A nightmare. One of the dreadful ones where you wake up terribly shaken and the whole thing spills into your waking hours, continuing to feel real for a disturbing amount of time.

He was in some sort of hole. Maybe a cave? It wasn’t clear. He was feeling claustrophobic but something was driving him to venture deeper inside, even though the farther he went, the smaller the space became. It was too dark to see anything clearly, and his heart was beginning to race.

He heard his grandfather. He was crying, then hollering, begging for help.

Auden!

The pain in his voice, the forlorn sound, wrenched Auden’s insides against each other. He pressed farther into the darkness, needing to be anywhere but there, but unable to stop himself. His grandfather’s cries continued. As he moved deeper into the hole, he found that he couldn’t discern the direction from which his grandfather’s voice was originating. He began to panic. The call became more and more faint until he wasn’t sure he could hear it at all. He had squeezed himself into such a narrow section of the hole that he was only able to fit by positioning himself flat on his back, and the darkness closed in around him. He couldn’t move, he wanted to cry. His grandfather was gone.

He awakened, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. There was only a sliver of relief at first: it would take almost an hour for him to fully realize it hadn’t been real.

In a way it never completely left him. Everything was a little harder. He’d notice while he was trying to read that he’d gotten into a loop, repeating one line of text over and over without realizing it. He’d finally catch it, dazed, unaware of how many iterations he’d been through. Sounds became abrasive to him. Things that had been fine before. His mother calling up to him to let him know that dinner was ready, innocent he tried to tell himself, but it sent a shudder of aversion through him before he even realized he was reacting. He tried not to let his mood affect his tone of voice or how he treated people, but he was sure that he wasn’t totally successful in this. He needed so badly to cry and scream and talk, to talk it out, to talk about this. To talk about his thoughts and feelings and confusion, the excruciating pain of the dream. But it was always Luna he talked to, and it was clear that this wasn’t a good subject for her. He’d have to find some other way through.

He became uneasy about the idea of continuing with their walks. How could he engage on other subjects while this one was pounding a skull-shattering drum beat inside his head? And how could he risk slipping and unloading this unwanted mania on his sister, who’d always been so kind to him? Still, he needed the calming effects that walking always brought him, the way he’d so often find thoughts sorting themselves out as he passed through the streets and paths where the two of them would go.

He put on a jacket and went out alone.

It felt strange, being out without Luna. They’d always walked together, sharing their thoughts, frustrations, twisted bits of humor. They occupied such a free mental state together it was like the time and space they spent with each other was a doorway into being able to become more fully himself, and to understand who that was. But he had to be without her now, out of respect for what she needed. Not even just respect. If he pushed this, if he insisted on taking her with him on this disturbing expedition of his, he might destroy the thing that he valued most, or that which it rested upon. Her peace of mind was necessary for her to be so good at helping him find his way. By asking this of her now, he could cause that which he sought to be lost. Maybe irreparably, he wasn’t sure. If he could in any way avoid it, he didn’t want to take that risk.

He cut through a little park where a family was out with their dog. A huge black Newfoundland who was intent on making his acquaintance. It had an amazingly light gait for such a massive animal. He’d never seen one up close and was shocked by the droopy skin around its eyes and drooling mouth. But it was sweet, friendly and strangely charming. He scruffed it behind its ears a bit before admonishing it to go back to its family. He gave them a wave before getting back on his way.

He walked past a cluster of shops. Coffee, books, chocolate, diner food, a place that sold dried flowers, incense (he assumed from the smell), and it looked like other quaint offerings. He wanted to go into each of them, or somehow all of them at once, but wasn’t in the right frame of mind. He wished he was feeling appropriately whimsical to wander in, but the weight of his thoughts felt a bad match for the atmosphere he perceived.

No, he was out to think about his grandfather, to try to find ideas about what it could have been, even the slightest thought about how to begin to try to think about it. And about what to do, if there was anything to do at all. He felt so lost. He left the shops behind.

On the next block he passed some old houses and found himself under a canopy of oak trees, which gave way to the grounds of a church made of black stone. He stopped in front of the building and wondered if he could just walk in.

There was no one around to ask. He’d never even been in a church. He’d always felt fortified by the sight of them despite never having had any interest in religion. The buildings were sometimes so beautiful, and so quiet. None of the bright lights and colors of commercial display, none of the noise and commotion of the business district, just a classic architecture that made him feel enriched. It seemed to have a stabilizing effect on that raw intensity persisting in his rib cage. He walked to the entrance.

Unsure of what to do, he knocked on the door, and waited a bit before realizing it was open. He cautiously nudged it far enough to poke his head in. The door had only led into an empty vestibule: he wasn’t bothering anyone here. There were multiple doors leading farther into the church, and he repeated his tentative process there. Everything was quiet, the room on the other side of the door seemed to be empty too, so he proceeded to slowly move the door.

What a wonderful place. The quiet wasn’t just in the lack of sound, it was as though the nature of the space housed a more profound quiet. The wooden pews, the angle of the ceiling as it seemed to reach for the sky, the sanctuary with the big cross and ceremonial settings, the art on the walls and the light streaming through the stained glass windows. He scoured the room with his eyes, slowly scanning, wanting to be sure no one was here but not wanting to disrupt the silence with his