And it’s mind over (I don’t) matter…

I really need to go engage in some lead-based therapy. Some loud meditation. Poking little holes in paper at football field distances.

One of the best and worst things about the way my mind works is that I can have a flashback but keep functioning well enough that almost no one notices.

What I mean by that is that I almost always have four or five different trains of thought going on different topics at once. I rarely am able to quiet my thoughts and focus on just—one—thing. So, I can have a full flashback (smells, sounds, tactile sensations [makes my skin crawl, that one], tastes [sometimes a wonder I can eat anything], and sights) on one track, and still be functioning on the others. It's not quite split personalities—it's all me—but I imagine it's as close as someone marginally sane can get.

And I will admit it came in really handy in my college years. And it comes in very handy now when I'm grading papers for Comp I, Comp II, posts for American Literature, and trying to make sure the imp doesn't run over the pixie as she's crawling over the floor, or trying to figure out how to pull up. It does get tiring, though, not being able to focus on just one thing. There are very few things that can totally absorb me.

One of the few things that do take all of my focus is shooting. Another is something one shouldn't mention on Blogger without an adult warning.

I've been having flashbacks, recently. And there's very little I can do about it. I can drink a bit—a little dims the sensations, but too much throws me headlong into them. I can get out from under them if I can focus all of the trains of thought on just one thing. If I had good, reliable babysitting, I could take one of my bolt-action rifles to the range with about sixty rounds, and spend something like three hours loading the five rounds all my bolt-action rifles take, working the bolt, lining up the shot, steadying my breathing and paying attention to my heart rate, taking the shot, and walking down to the target to see where it landed.

(I really prefer my higher caliber rifles, but built the way I am, I'd wind up with a wet shirt while I'm nursing. As a friend recently remarked, I've got tits like Pamela Anderson. At under five feet in height. Yeah, not much room to shoulder a rifle without mammary tissue being involved.)

Unfortunately, the pixie, at seven months, is flat refusing a bottle, as well as most baby food. She seems to like sweet potatoes, but we can't tell if they cause her to have a bellyache or not. She's also, unfortunately, been unwilling to go to bed at her usual time (and never naps for more than half an hour during the day when put down) recently, making…something else…a bit more difficult to find time for.

Another thing that helps is diving into a good book. I've been reduced to that more than I'd like—I have papers to grade, and children to care for (and play with, and teach, and watch grow).

I can sometimes direct the flashbacks to…less bad times, but not always.

And talking never helps. Neither do any medications—those usually work exactly opposite of the way they're supposed to. I should know: when my mother regained physical custody of my sister and me (she never regained legal custody—the state kept that), we were remanded by court order into therapy. And we had about a dozen different drugs apiece tried on us.

The worst for me was Prozac. I still have lingering effects from that, twenty years after taking it for a month. My sister took it longer, and the effects are far more pronounced in her—a distinct inability to control emotions and impulses.

Sometimes I wonder if, perhaps, I wasn't a borderline sociopath before the attempts to "fix" what my male genetic donor broke.

Sometimes I wonder what I'd be if I hadn't had some odds and ends of weirdness in my psyche to fix myself as best I could. And sometimes I wonder what I'd be if the "professionals" had managed with me what they manage with so few.

And sometimes, I wish I could just get all the way past this. I wish I could see the point in forgiveness of sins against me, but as the song says, I'm not Jesus.

Sorry this is rambling, everyone. I'm a little tired, and more than a little down.