Can prolonged stress reduce reading comprehension and speaking ability? (vision, cancer, pain)

[Clintone]

I wrote a short story. About the first third of it is posted below. My father read part of this. He thought it was extremely unclear. I've had seven critiquers look at this. One was a published author. All of them had some criticisms. (The published author made almost 600 words of almost all criticism) but none of them thought it was unclear...except that the published author made a rather snarky remark that he didn't know whether the first poem was supposed to have some kind of rhythm or not).

I could understand someone seeing the story as unclear, but my dad seemed to see it as unclear beyond what I see as reasonable for the average person. It was like watching a young child (who could read) read it. Maybe a fourth grader? I'm thinking somewhere in elementary school.

He's not dumb at all. He runs his own architecture firm. About a month ago he designed some scaffolding that was as sturdy as some decks I've walked on to repair some fallen roofing. His spatial reasoning - his ability to visualize things, remains amazing...but when reading my story, he appeared to have absolutely no understanding of nuance.

This wouldn't be noteworthy to me, except that about seven years ago he had spinal cancer and was wheelchair bound. (The cancer is cured now). During that time he forgot how to speak clearly, and in some cases, coherently. He also stopped being able to write easily. No doubt this was partly because his fingers would shake, but also...he didn't seem to know how to write the letters correctly.

During part of that time, he had what I think was steroid psychosis due to the cancer treatments. He lost his verbal filter. He became very angry, most of the time, and made irrational demands. This isn't about what I consider to be the probable steroid psychosis though.

I assumed that his difficulty speaking had something to do with the cancer drugs...but now I'm wondering, can extensive stress have a negative effect on the part of your mind in charge of language?

My father had been out of a wheelchair, and even running a little, for about five years now. He recently broke his foot and has been wheelchair bound for about a month now. He finds this extremely unpleasant. He hates having to rely on others. After he got out of his wheelchair after healing from the cancer, he didn't even want to look at it again...and now he's back in it for awhile.

So again, here's my question: Can extensive, long term stress hinder part of the thought process that might be responsible for reading comprehension or speaking ability?

Also, note again that the cancer has been cured.

Here's the story below, or the first third of it anyway. Thanks for reading my comment:


“Goddess of gaps, where have you gone?

May I see your face? Can I see your face?

Are you spitting on philosophers? Do they think it’s rain?

No, they say no. No, they claim no.

Am I the one you are spitting on?

Are you hidden in light?

Are you the goddess of light, burning bright?


Goddess of light, burning bright,

When the first cell emerged from water and stone, inside it did you dwell?

Did a goddess dwell inside that cell?

Did you grant it the fire to thrive, to become alive, to struggle from stone to alive?

Is fire so different from life?

The hunger to feed, to burn and to breed, and stardust is the source of all life….”


The rot-gummed god – known to demons and agents of Heaven and celestial spirits and dark forces of the void as Archogsognathus - liked to sing, whenever he wasn’t busy foraging for garbage in the dumpster a brisk walk from his cardboard refrigerator box home, under a highway overpass. It was trash-taking Tuesday today, so his treasure bin was empty and he had little else to do besides merrymaking.


“Nitpicker ants…

have just found a grape!

trotting along the back porch

chitin like chainmail, formed from wax paper,

and all hope the thing doesn’t roll.”


And they had too. A little black line tugged half a juicy green grape through the dirt, right by the cardboard refrigerator box flap Archog. had long ago begun considering his back porch. He plucked it away from them and ate it.

“I am the toaster!” shouted the mad god Archogsognathus, bellowing a challenge into the barren night.

“I am the wigwam of hotdog water! I am the pickle juice of Illinois!”

The rot-gummed god climbed from his newspaper-insulated, cardboard refrigerator box and began to dance in the moonlight, completely nude. He had the stunning physique of a 134 year old man who hadn’t bathed in the last 133 years. He leapt into their air, knocking his heels together in midair, skipping about and whirling.

“When the stone drops fall like rain, I’ll be wading in poppenstance where they wyverns dart and play.

When the stone drops fall like rain, and luminous. Luminous is a good word. So is pearlescent. Humdidumdidumdidumdidumdidumdidum…dum,” sang Archogsognathus.

The rot-gummed god turned, mellowing his mood and pausing his dance. It sensed a familiar presence, hiding somewhere between shadows and moonbeams.

“Quiet night, gentle night, spirit mother of earth and light. Through the moonbeams she stalks the night, hunting those who make a blight,” briefly sang Archog.

“Hello Archy. Shouldn’t you have been arrested for indecent exposure long ago?”

“It speaks. She wonders the obvious, for I am a god,” responded Archog.

“And I am not a god, but I am, however, sane, and I have reasonable questions.”

Archog. finally turned to view the pseudo/maybe witch-woman. Or perhaps she was something else entirely. Perhaps she was simply a mortal with a great many tricks up her sleeve. Nobody seemed to know, especially the god Archogsognathus.

She was a little over a meter and a half tall due to her haunch. She wore a dirty bedsheet of a robe that might once have been white, ages ago. She had tangled hair that might once have been blonde, and might still be, but it was difficult to tell through the caked grime. She had talons on her fingers and talons on her toes. Whether these were merely un-clipped, ordinary fingernails and toenails or something more catlike was difficult to tell. She had deep, black, pupil-less eyes – black like the void between galaxies. Archy couldn’t imagine her ever having been young. He commenced another poem:


“He smiles! He smiles, with a used car salesman’s smile!

He shakes with both hands, while selling to folks who’re senile!

There’s gold in his eyes eying the gold in your teeth!

He’s a devil! A holy devil! the Grand-Daddy Long Legs Clown King!”


“Why must you take so long to arrive at the point? I know you are not as insane as you pretend to be. There is some sense about you. It isn’t much, about a pinch of salt, but it’s more than you enjoy expressing,” said the moonbeam lady.

“I’ve lost my shadow. It doesn’t want to come back. I need you to find it, to teach it, all the errors of this anarchy. Conquer it, and don’t be conquered.”

The old god paused to stick a finger up his nose and continued speaking as he mined.

“It’s a lovely thing to lose your shadow. Have you ever done it?”

The moonbeam lady shook her head, no.

“It’s quite liberating…all the tar and bacon grease of the soul, drifted off. It wants its freedom, and I want its freedom, but the other I doesn’t want its freedom at all…because of all the horribleness and such.”

“Horribleness?” responded the moonbeam lady.

“And such. Don’t forget the such.”

Before his companion could respond, Archogsognathus broke into song again:


“He looks like a nice spider but has fangs just the same.

They’ll gouge into your wallet, and your money, they’ll drain.

He likes to kick kittens and laughs at puppies in pain.

He’s a devil, a rotting devil, the Grand-Daddy Long Legs Clown King.”

“Just, where is the thing?” said the woman.


“It splits, it spl-“

“Not another poem! One more poem and I’m leaving!” said the woman.

Archogsognathus commenced speaking while enthusiastically eyeing his fingertip-topping nostril treasures.

“In the swamps, where you can smell the sea, far from here, to the south. It likes the dark waters. It took with it my smell, and much of my power. Follow its scent to its nest,” said Archogsognathus.

And a garbage truck passed by, reeking of stinging odors. It parked on the empty roadside just past the overpass.

“Your chariot awaits,” said Archogsognthus.

[greatblueheron]

My reading comprehension has gone down in stress response to trying to read your long, long post.

Maybe try to edit for a shorter post and someone might answer.

But yes, in general, reading comprehension can be affected by extreme stress.

[Sollaces]

At the beginning I felt I was dropped into a story, hearing a conversation already going on, not knowing who is talking or what the subject is about. I have no idea if it's one person coming to grips with the universe and universal laws or what. 'Goddess of Gaps' ?? Is this mythology? Gaps in what?

Usually a short story has a title and a summary blurb. Just those two things would help a lot.

[Lycanmaster]

Prolonged and severe stress could potentially lower your vision, period!

Which is what happened to me, and in a relatively short period of time.

[purehuman]

I hope you're not trying to blame the fact that your father wasn't thrilled with your writings on his stress and pain.
Would you even be asking this question if he'd given you glowing reviews?

He's entitled to his opinions without you blaming the negative ones on his health...if the critiquers had said it was "unclear" would you blame it on any illnesses they may have as well???

I found your writing interesting...but also unclear...course I'm no expert (critiquers, published author).
I don't have a lot of stress or other health problems that would effect how or what I think, so you couldn't blame that on my health.

[jonesg]

You're a good writer.
Keep writing and put it in the correct forum.