FIXERS ARE ’PITAS’ AND MUCH MORE ...

Have you read Jodi Picoult?

“You’re a fixer, Grant mused. You’re also a colossal pain in the ass. The thing is, it’s the pains in the ass that change the world.”

“I know what loose ends can do to a soul.  The sooner she knows the truth, whatever it is, the sooner she can get on with her future.”

 “I have studied memory extensively, and the best analogy I’ve found to explain its mechanics is this: Think of the brain as the central office of your body. Every experience you have on any given day, then, is a folder being dropped on a desk to be filed away for future reference. The administrative assistant who comes in at night, while you’re asleep, to clear that logjam in her in-box is the part of the brain called the hippocampus.  The hippocampus takes all these folders and files them in places that make sense. This experience is a fight with your husband? Great, let’s put it with a few more of those from last year. This experience is a memory of a fireworks display? Cross-reference it with a Fourth of July party you attended a while back. She tries to place each memory where there are as many related incidents as possible, because that is what makes them easier to retrieve.  Sometimes, though, you simply cannot remember an experience.” ... (or even know that it happened to you until an intuitive readiness to openly confront a terrifying, deeply repressed truth places a tool, like EMDR therapy, into your hands, whereby insight focuses its spotlight on a door in your defense system’s wall, and your current strength of self worth, serving as the magic key that works as well as Open Sesame, sees you sliding inside your brain's inner sanctum where your storehouse of mind-boggling mental blocks, made up of inter-related traumas, insecurities and confounding situations await your think tank’s expanding capacity to re-organize the files within your memory bank with such attention to detail so that a tumble into the rabbit hole will no longer cast your processor adrift in a murky swamp with no rudder [or mudder] to guide you toward sighting the welcoming safety of a brand new shore, where you’ll no longer fear the power of childhood's terror overwhelming today’s conscious connection to inner strength whenever a condensed eruption of repressed memories concerning horrific moments is triggered to wash over your wall of denial, which Mother Nature had mercifully instructed your defense system to erect so as to block your conscious awareness from fearing mankind’s cruelty to such a grave extent as to refuse to leave the confines of the closet—until now.  And having reflected over today’s train of thought, I feel thankful for envisioning myself lashed to that mast, because my ship’s never sunk, suggesting that each time I feel reattached to that mast, my power of insight feels steadied to spy the coveted shoreline that beckons me sail straight ahead no matter how long my desire to embrace a lasting sense of inner peace remains just beyond reach, because a life well-lived is less about achieving one’s ultimate goals and more about setting one's inner compass upon remaining on course more often than feeling so spinelessly fearful as to be easily swept up, like a leaf, flitting here and there until ultimately landing in a pile of sameness that ends up amassed within a dark plastic bag which offers my spirit no spotlight of insight at the end of the tunnel, inviting all of me, most significantly my joie de vie, to turn up the music and dance—two steps forward, one back—until my positive energy field spirits my think tank to break free of feeling overwhelmed whenever future gusts of negatively eruptive energy release additional facets of yesteryear's childhood traumas, at last—I hope)

“People with PTSD may have smaller hippocampi than ordinary people. Some scientists believe that corticoids—stress hormones—can atrophy the hippocampus and cause memory disruptions.”

(Once a current event triggers my processor to slip from today’s reality into an episode of PTSD, rather than simply acknowledging my mistake and slipping back out, my intelligence must fortify itself to go to work detecting exactly where I am because each time I’ve stumbled into the rabbit’s hole, my conscious awareness, reacting like a time traveler, feels lost in yet another scary facet of yesteryear’s emotionally overwhelming maze, which appears as impenetrably hazy as had been true when, at the age of three, or five or eleven my safe haven in the arms of those I’d loved had cruelly been wrenched so far above my mental grasp as to have lashed my budding sense of self worth to the mast of a shipwreck, casting my personal sense of safety adrift in a stormy sea, and though I can walk outside and feel the desert sun warm my skin and sense my grand daughter’s eagerness for our next play date—today’s string of insights suggests my intuitive need to discover more about memory and its effects on mind control, ne c’est pas? )

(Trauma and mental blocks—with so much yet to be learned about the complex intricacies of the interrelated functionalities contained within the human brain, it's no wonder why scientific research, regarding everything that takes place inside our heads, is known as ‘the last frontier’.)

The excerpts quoted above are from Leaving Time by novelist, Jodi Picoult

Thoughts coursing within the confines of parentheses (highlighting my need to
Continue to reorganize my brain’s field of positive mental energy) are mine.
Is there any wonder as to why my hungry processor feels
Magnetically drawn to feast upon the brilliance of
This prolific, award winning, best selling author?
Have I mentioned that Will has my permission to call me
A Pita whenever an episode of PTSD turns me into a time traveler?
Pain In The Ass
PS
As readership dropped significantly, last week, when my mind felt too cloistered to pen posts grounded in deeper truth, clarity or common sense, I just want to say grazie for choosing to ride sidekick now that I’m back in the saddle, again.

Since memory leads one train of thought to another, I wonder if you’ve ever heard of TV's singing cowboy—Gene Autry?  If so, it’s likely that you and I are close in age.

If you decide to read Leaving Time, you might want to read Picoult’s Larger Than Life, first as that novella leads into Leaving Time.