December 2014
The phone rings
It's Stuart's friend, Will, calling for me
Uh, just a minute—hold the phone—
2014
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears, and please bear with me, for this reason:
My mind awoke, this morning, flowing with thoughts, which feel empowered to block my sense of freedom to write about my first date with Will. The nature of these thoughts suggests intuition coaching me to clarify the ways in which deciphering dreams correlates with my brain's innate ability to hasten healing itself from PTSD. So—if you're wondering as to which insights are in need of release, your guess is as good as mine … and having declared that I've no mindful clue as to which train of thought is about to pour, freely, naturally, out of my mind, let's see what stream of consciousness reveals, today:
Each time I awaken from a weirdly imaginative dreamscape, I remind myself of this fact: Scientific study has proven that while we're dreaming, many components of our brains, functioning subconsciously, are interacting as a unified whole. Therefore, if, while awakening, my sense of intuition nudges my power of curiosity to analyze a dreamscape (the content of which perplexes my intelligence), I'll work at reproducing the dream, scene by scene, before its set of highly imaginative, interactive details evaporates into nothingness.
Generally, I recite the dream aloud to Will, who listens or not. More important than Will's attention to detail is my own, for this reason: While listening to myself express the dream aloud, my sixth sense kicks in, and I find myself working to decipher outrageous details, each of which makes perfect sense once my intelligence catches wind of the fact that my subconscious is challenging my conscious mind to figure out a secret code that can be broken by no one but me! Aha! There's the first insight that intuition expressed a need to write.
Each time a dream challenges my conscious awareness to grasp an illusive detail, which may be associated with the traumatic secret, trapped within my subconscious, here's what happens: My brain, functioning as an intelligent whole, works to loosen its hold on the paralysis that results when PTSD remains unhealed, or even worse, undiagnosed. For example, I'd had no conscious clue that my fear of guys had stopped me from trying out for cheerleading, year after year. I also had no clue how frightened I was every time I found myself alone in a car with a guy, who was driving me home after a date. And right after writing that statement, a fleeting thought of babysitting flew into and out of my mind, as though my subconscious had just whispered: Something happened in the car while the father drove me home, and as anxiety accompanied that fleeting ... memory(?) ... I Feel the need to ask: Did my subconscious just slip another detail into my conscious mind? Hopefully, it's becoming clear that those of you who have been following repetitive trains of thought in post after post have been watching my brain working, methodically, to heal itself from PTSD, one cautious, yet courageous step at a time.
Once again, chrysalis proves lengthy when layers of self protective denial thicken, instinctively, over decades. And thus, in addition to courage—determination, tenacity and resilience—prove necessary if knowledge and patience are to win over PTSD in the end.
Each time my awareness delves into the mysterious realm of dreamscape, the cathartic exercise of speaking, writing, expanding upon and editing my innermost thoughts inspires insight into deeper truth to emerge, and as each illusive detail is retrieved, my intuitive belief of feeling my brain capable of healing itself continues to strengthen, within. Thank goodness I can depend upon my line of control to stop fear from usurping authority over my entire think tank each time anxiety sparks PTSD to disrupt clarity of thought.
If you ask why a person must muster courage to heal from PTSD, I'd reply: Each bout of PTSD arouses anxiety to differing degrees. Upon feeling deeply anxious our brains are programed to turn off our think tanks, thus affording us the ability to divert every bit of mental and physical energy to fight, flee or freeze (as had proved necessary, long ago, when men, holding clubs came upon great beasts, who'd roamed the earth at will). As long as anxiety is empowered to rouse human brain's ancient self-protective instinct to fight/flee/freeze, fear will fight intelligence for dominance over brain space unless our conscious minds grow practiced at achieving heightened levels of emotional control. (When considering the timeline in relation to the overall development of the human brain, all I can say is this—Wow—talk about a lengthy period of chrysalis, right???).
Each time subconscious anxiety feels reason to spike, today, my intuition consciously instructs my courage to hold onto my intelligence, thus ensuring that surging PTSD does not gain control over too much of my brain space as had proven true when I'd felt the overwhelming need beat off Joseph's kiss—Or when my fear-based instinctive reaction pushed guys away at the end of a date—or when subconscious fear of finding myself vulnerable to attack by strange men strangled my hold onto intelligent thought, right before my Mom's 100th birthday party, which converged with Will's cancer surgery, last year. I mean, who would have believed that deeper truth into the emergent nature of that matched set of emotional reactions had been directly related to the secret that proved so awful as to have been swallowed whole when a terrifying experience overwhelmed the cognitive capabilities of my think tank during childhood.
So—having taken this time to free my mind to express the ways in which PTSD influences that which takes place deep inside my brain whether I'm dreaming or awake, let's make good use of today's information as we begin to investigate the reason why Will chose to stick around long enough to hold me so gently as to calm my fear, suggesting why I did not struggle to fight him off when other guys, who'd compared my reactions to a building made of solid brick walls, had chosen to kiss me off at my front door, early on—I mean the fact that Will had made good use of his noodle to penetrate my defensive wall suggests your friend, Annie, being made of softer stuff than bricks, after all—right?
I'm happy and relieved to relate that
Will's first PSA test, since completion of
Radiation therapy, has decreased!
As to indulging in ice cream at Baskin Robbin—
Well ... Thoughts of dieting turn me off to that 😊
So, rather than ice cream, here's the plan:
We'll celebrate, tonight, at dinner with dear, supportive friends 😊
No comments:
Post a Comment