This moment is vibrating, the formation of an event horizon.
Tonight I feel the tension before the birth of circumstellar disks, accretion disks, spinning matter in flat bands. Two disks occupy near space. One expands to spiral outward, colliding with and altering all it touches; the other spins debris inward, as if to a black hole.
Inauguration Eve ©19 January 2017 8 p.m.|Sandra R. Davidson
Spiraling In or Spiraling Out? [Image Credit: ESO/L. Calçada]
Three short stories in and I’m closing the Nook. I enjoy reading; I am a writer. One love does not diminish the other, only informs it.
I lost an adult lifetime of writing somewhere in the ones-and-zeroes of computer files. Journal, fiction, nonfiction, poetry—all of it is gone.
Before admonishments for digital redundancy march up through the comments, Continue reading
Rarely have I dreamed of myself or as myself.
Perhaps it is the writer in me, those times when I wake from dreaming and, in the dark, scribble franticly to capture the essence of contiguous or repetitive dreams. No matter what the dream, I wake as if movie credits had
According to a professional source, this is highly unusual. A woman who has worked in the counseling profession for more than 20 years said she’d never had a client who dreamed this way.begun to roll. This is not to say I am unaffected by the dreams.
There have been few exceptions and I find them alarming and disturbing to the point I do not wish to rest, to risk sleep and another first-person dream. One span was in my early 20s. On a nightly basis I was eviscerating a person I knew; the details were visually and tactilely real.
These dreams pushed me into my first experience with a counselor. Obviously I resolved the underlying fears attached to the dreams and to the object of the dreams.
I’m not a violent person, though I know I could be if the act were necessary.
I’m dreaming in second person and first person again, sometimes switching between the two. Most often these dreams feature people I know. I can identify the key triggers, but they are rusty things, things I thought I had dealt with years ago. I feel I can find no resolution because the fears are known to me.
I want to go back to my normal. I can find no way across the chasm except down and forging through.
“…people exposed to high levels of EMF have lower levels of the anti-convulsive melatonin, leaving them prone to so-called “micro-seizures” and the resulting hallucinations this can lead to.” via Magnets, Mental Health, & Me: Down The Rabbit Hole | Depression Time.
Electromagnetic fields and hallucinations. Hmm. This is concerning. I live alongside multi-line, high-voltage power poles. According to the National Institute of Health, power lines are non-ionizing and the electromagnetic field strength plummets within even short distances. “If you are concerned about EMFs emitted by a power line or substation in your area, you can contact your local power company to schedule an on-site reading. You can also measure EMFs yourself with the use of a gaussmeter, which is available for purchase online through a number of retailers.” (National Institute of Health)
I take the supplement melatonin to help regulate my circadian rhythm as I’m prone to insomnia. I’ve heard of limited studies about melatonin being used to help people who are blind regulate their sleep cycles since they do not have light and darkness cues, though it seems to work in only half the participants (more studies underway). Melatonin decreases with age and often the elderly experience irregular sleep/wake cycles, so perhaps a supplement makes sense.
Electromagnetic fields is a new one. I have been diagnosed with periodic limb movement disorder (restless legs but involving more than just the legs) and melatonin is reputed to help with this seizure-like problem, though there is little data to prove or disprove this notion. The Mayo Clinic has a grading system, A through F just like in school, regarding melatonin’s rumored effectiveness, as well as cautions. This is a drug (yes, drug) with little testing to its claims.
The only reference I could find to (hypnagogic) hallucinations has no direct connection to EMF or melatonin. Rather the condition is a complex mechanism—just as we are. This was an interesting jaunt though and what helps some, helps some.
Today I read a post that pegged me and fostered self-examination. So of course I have to try it out on you. The post is Trust.
Ritual abuse, the sort that is in the name of religion and cult, is quite real and I am relieved to be informed without having to have had first-hand experience.
When I was young, I trusted everyone I met with everything about me. Frightening, isn’t it? As an abused child, I wasn’t a discerning adult; I wanted and craved close relationships instead of superficial ones and silence.
I’m still learning to trust and how to trust, not just whom to trust. After a particularly disastrous choice to trust, I no longer trusted my own judgment. I began eliminating friends, family, co-workers and anything that appeared to be an attempt at a relationship. I did well and soon had no one to which I could turn—or hurt or be hurt by.
After seven years of isolation, I am relearning the skills of small talk, which I despise. My counselor and I discussed having a group of friends to meet with and laugh with; this is foreign, intimidating. It was my brother who put it into perspective: Start with “hello” to the checkout clerk and “thank you” to someone who guided you in some small way. When you meet someone for the third, fourth, fifth time, it is okay to ask how their day is going.
There is an older gentleman who works at a national chain store near me. I see him nearly every time I enter the store. He speaks to everyone and I used to just nod. Then I began to respond quickly as I pushed my cart past him. One day he wasn’t in uniform; he was hanging out at the store on his day off. I immediately recognized he was lonely. He said he was checking his schedule—while standing in the middle of a main isle of the store. I had an actual conversation while waiting for my husband to join me.
No commitment there for me, and he appreciated the recognition that he was a part of the store’s culture.
I’m no master, and I’m learning.
I made a comment on:
WHAT HAPPENED??? « DEPRESSION: my muse.
and his response included how he is learning to be a less private person.
I used to be, and still am for the most part, a woman who hoards her thoughts and words. I have tried to maintain an impenetrable mind and heart because there is so little to trust in those who hear and do not listen, or who repeat what they did not understand in the first place. (I do this also and I examine myself moment by moment to try to retain understanding and accuracy, and to keep no place for gossip in my life.)
Eventually my thoughts become an enormous pile of marbles I can no longer keep. One escapes over there; I scramble to catch it, and more escape elsewhere.
Privacy is an illusion, as is safety and security.
I’ve been digging through ancestral records. For a single individual, I can find out where they lived and when just through old phone books that are now scanned and filed online. It is something like connect the dots. We have that in the digital era more so.
I have offered up my superficial sense of privacy and am now freeing (sllloooowwwwly) my mind, though doubts prevail. I suppose if I were perfectly confident that would be a warning to others. Of what, I’m not sure, but warning just the same.
I have begun to wonder if I am an optimist.
Burkas. Our Canadian friend posted the image of women dressed in black cloth save the area immediately surrounding their eyes. My response was, “At least they won’t worry about melanoma.” He posted, “Leave it to you to find the silver lining. LOL”
Yes. And I have considered something else that may be a social silver lining: Perhaps Arab men prefer their women fair skinned. A garment covering virtually every inch of skin (and some do cover the eyes) would indicate social status. When I have seen women in Arab countries without burkas, they are often workers of lower status or children. Their skin is darker, more natural. Common-er.
Perhaps it is as was in old British times when a voluptuous woman was considered desirable—because she was well fed and pampered. As my husband pointed out, extra weight could indicate a fertile woman who would be healthy enough to live through pregnancy and also produce healthy offspring.
Optimist.
I have always felt I was a realist. Through the comments of others and my own self awareness, I think I’m more along the line of an optimist on the continuum of thought and emotion—except as it pertains to myself and self doubt.
I wake up the morning of a long day of appointments and errands to say, “We’re halfway there!” Then I explain the starting of a task or series of tasks is indeed halfway there.
The realist is a strong presence, yes. It allows me to see from many perspectives and follow perspectives and details to logical conclusions. It has served me well except in my naivete. Inexperience trumps realism every time.
Pessimism is reserved for my own view of myself. As I told my husband tonight, I see myself as more disabled than able. I mentally review and re-review my shortcomings, my mistakes—even mistakes I haven’t made…yet. I am afraid to disappoint or embarrass others. My anxiety peaks the moment I know I have to walk out the door or someone else is about to walk through it. It is beyond self critical.
2012©Sandra Davidson
The scare for my parents was that I was to be born with spina bifida. The medical personnel recommended abortion. My mother refused; she was handed a healthy girl.
After I was born, my mother tells me, I was a child for whom troubles rolled off me “like water from a duck’s back.” My paternal grandmother says the same.
Somewhere along the way I have lost my resilience and picked up anxiety in every likely form short of phobia.
I remember once being exasperated with an older relative’s indecision about a situation when the two paths of action were plenty clear.
These days I can easily slide the rail of the spiral staircase of indecision, all the way to the paralyzing floor. It took me a year and a half to gather wits enough to start this blog, for example.
Two paths: Yes; no. And a wide circle between on which to trudge through indecision.
My funk continues now. My sides and neck and shoulders are stiff with the effort of restraint. I’m jumpy, jittery to the touch. My mind is all over.
I feel like our dog can see right through my attempts at remaining normal to the outside.
Days of words, conversations, lyrics, noise—I want to curl up in a cold place with a quilt below and another above, and a couple of pillows. Someplace without electricity being rammed into appliances in every room: Dehumidifier; fish tank, the sound of a movie clip coming from my husband’s computer. And candle-type light. Nothing bright enough to read by, dark enough to dilate my pupils.
I feel like someone has injected me with adrenaline and told me to hold really still [or else…].
©2011 Sandra Davidson
A Layering of Perception 