“The bodies of traumatized people portray “snapshots” of their unsuccessful attempts to defend themselves in the face of threat and injury. Trauma is a highly activated incomplete biological response to threat, frozen in time. For example, when we prepare to fight or to flee, muscles throughout our entire body are tensed in specific patterns of high energy readiness. When we are unable to complete the appropriate actions, we fail to discharge the tremendous energy generated by our survival preparations. This energy becomes fixed in specific patterns of neuromuscular readiness. The person then stays in a state of acute and then chronic arousal and dysfunction in the central nervous system. Traumatized people are not suffering from a disease in the normal sense of the word- they have become stuck in an aroused state. It is difficult if not impossible to function normally under these circumstances.” ~ Peter Levine
“Perhaps a creature of so much ingenuity and deep memory is almost bound to grow alienated from his world, his fellows, and the objects around him. He suffers from a nostalgia for which there is no remedy upon earth except as it is to be found in the enlightenment of the spirit–some ability to have a perceptive rather than an exploitive relationship with his fellow creatures.” ~ Loren Eiseley
Sluggish again, two days in a row. Risking sounding whiney, or hearing that everybody feels this way sometimes, I cop to the trauma again. Sigh. But it does not, with any kind of firm metaphorical hand, keep me from perceiving the important things in life. Like the Moon. She’s up there beyond the clouds, which are thick enough to nearly occult the orb altogether. I love that kind of stuff. Or reading that scientist have revealed that a meteor exploded over the Bering Sea, last December, releasing a force that was ten times the power of the atomic bomb that exploded over Hiroshima. I find it odd that the bomb was named “Little Boy”. Something about that bugs me in a cosmic sort of way. I won’t dwell on it, nor do I even have the urge to . . . I don’t know where I was going with that. Never mind. But the coolest thing about the meteor is that it took us three months to notice it, because nobody seems to have actually seen the thing in person; an “if a tree falls in the forest” kind of thing. The cat is asleep in her bed, to the right of my chair, blissfully unconcerned about exploding extraterrestrial objects. The last swallow or two of tepid coffee sits in my cup, awaiting consumption. Yeh, it’s good to the last drop. It’s a workday. My war with the backyard skunk has swung in my favor for now. Pepper spray, at the opening to the place where the beastie likes to nest, effectively gave me victory in this particular battle. Bully for me, right? I in no way expect to never see that critter again. I feel like Bill Murray in his war with the gophers. Again . . . bully for me, right? Skunks are very beautiful to behold. Nuff said. The lovely animal will return; I have no doubt of that. And if anybody brings up the name Pepé Le Pew, I will righteously unleash Foghorn Leghorn on them before they can even begin to utter Rumpelstiltskin. “Boy, I say, boy, now don’t get me riled!”. That’s what I say. I’m not cranky so much as I am simply on high alert. The PTSD got mildly triggered yesterday. That which tripped the trigger was fairly petty and not at all important at this point. Everybody feels that way at times. Gee Wally, do I sound pessimistic and dark . . . dag nab it, I nearly quoted Beaver Cleaver! I don’t know what got into me. My bad. I’m just grateful that I stopped myself in time. No, wait, I really did quote him, though I am pretty sure that he never actually said that. Whatever. Apocryphal TV trivia can be kind of fun, though. But, so much for my foray into pop culture, except to note that I must confess to a deep love for Foghorn Leghorn. I assure you that not everybody feels that way. I’m feeling moderately depressed this morning. I hope that my attempts at humor here have amused you to some degree. As for the depression? Ya pretty much have to roll with it dude. That’s all, folks.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.