I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love’s not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person.* But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time…
~ Slyvia Plath
If I could, I’d like to take Slyvia aside and have a little chat with her. She might like to be everyone and experience everything and come home to write about it, but interestingly she gives no thought to the implications of what that would truly mean if she could. It’s not that fun.
I’m going slightly mad today. It could be that I was up late last night attempting to give thoughtful replies to my lovely blogging friends. I could be because it’s 10 am and I’ve yet to consume anything more substantial than coffee.
You see, it might be fascinating to imagine and write about all those experiences. And yet, having been through a number of lifetimes in just this one, I find myself in an odd head and heart space that makes me feel like my entire history is one kaleidoscopic view in my minds eye from time to time.
As a former clinical laboratory scientist in microbiology, forensics and medical genetics, I have so many diverse professional experiences. I was a laboratory technician, and then I was recruited to work the corporate office in quality control. Then I moved into forensic DNA analysis and then into a laboratory supervisory position in medical genetics. After 12 years of working in the biotech field, I came home to mother my daughters. In that period of time I became a writer, a researcher on gifted issues, human development and mental health and an advocate and disseminator of information regarding selective mutism and sensory processing disorder (as my daughter had that). When my daughter’s selective mutism resolved, I became interested in writing and photography and mixed media art and art journaling and poetry as outlets for a deep need to understand my Self and explore the Universe and my relation to it. Oh, yes, and I substitute teach now.
I’ve been calling my past lives to mind today and it triggered me into a weird internal response.
There’s so much I have seen, and done and so much that I wish yet to see and do. And the spin cycle begins.
My mind, once my most valuable asset, is driving me down a path of mind-melting trip. While I can honestly say I’ve never partaken in illicit drugs, I suffer from flashbacks. And I am not even talking about traumatic ones. I have good memories popping up to say hello and remind me of fun times I’d had. I have good ideas I want to blog about.
It’s not painful, but it sure is unpleasant. It could become frightening if I let it.
And I am trying to focus on the present moment and my present experience without judgment or fear.
My mind is now like a snowglobe shaken up and I know, if I start judging myself negatively, this could downward spiral into extreme self-loathing and that’s a terrible place to be.
I’d like to grip my head in my hands and squeeze it until the images and thoughts and memories stop swirling in my head.
I understand my as yet untreated Hashimoto’s thyroiditis doesn’t make things any better.
I know there’s a PTSD type of response at work right now. It’s not one thing, it’s everything.
I feel a bit afraid, but I’m not in danger.
I won’t follow the negative thought pattern that leads me back to dark places. Before, I developed some poor habits of mind. But I’m not locked into them.
I am momentarily knocked off kilter, but I don’t have to stay there. I have options available to me now.
I can do something about it and I don’t have to listen to the Ego taunting me like it does.
I am being re-challenged to dis-identify from self-image. Yes, clearly I still cling to what I have done, and not who I am apart from what I have done. But sometimes I think it was so neat-o. Ego alternately tells me how much I rock, and how much I suck.
I think the moment is passing.
Let’s hope so anyway, shall we?
Madness is only fun for a little while, then it becomes frightening.