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"IF" was a dominant theme in every single one of my psychotic breaks. Yes, folks, I have survived more than my share of psychotic breaks. I still treat "IF" as a red flag in my strictly personal inventory. It remains a trigger to the Light Years between Galactic adventures and shock therapy. Strictly personal. No offense intended to lovers of "IF Themes." Should I call myself, "An Iffiholic?" One IF is too many. A million IFs are not enough. Blessings to those who can IF safely. I cannot.
One of the collateral developments from fighting my personal "IF Demon" is creating acronyms out of "I.F." "Idiot Factor" is my longest running fave. In general, my personal If Themes get idiotic in a hurry. When I am in my planning/control mode, I work to, "Get the IF out of it."
But. . . "Idiot Factor" is nowhere near my only acronym for "I.F." By now, I might have enough to publish, "Arf's Book of I.F."
A new one popped out of my keyboard in a recent thread here in this forum. "Inner Frankie." Methinks I hit a nail on the head. Maybe. Frank Sinatra was a recurring soundtrack in the kiddie whorehouses of my childhood. Hated the sewers under the recording studios, but somehow, I still love the music.
Reality checks?
One of the collateral developments from fighting my personal "IF Demon" is creating acronyms out of "I.F." "Idiot Factor" is my longest running fave. In general, my personal If Themes get idiotic in a hurry. When I am in my planning/control mode, I work to, "Get the IF out of it."
But. . . "Idiot Factor" is nowhere near my only acronym for "I.F." By now, I might have enough to publish, "Arf's Book of I.F."
A new one popped out of my keyboard in a recent thread here in this forum. "Inner Frankie." Methinks I hit a nail on the head. Maybe. Frank Sinatra was a recurring soundtrack in the kiddie whorehouses of my childhood. Hated the sewers under the recording studios, but somehow, I still love the music.
Reality checks?
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I did the dumbest thing today. I charged my earbuds, unplugged the block and put the block in my little bag instead of the earbuds. I wasn't happy about that when I got to the gym. What a dummy!
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Ever since I stopped doing therapy because of insurance, I've been feeling that old tense and irritable sense of anxiety and stress. I hate that. I was making so many strides and changes during therapy, my therapist would acknowledge all of my progress and accomplishments, and I miss that reassurance. Today I thought about it, and I made those changes! She would always tell me that I chose to...
IF = In Fantasy?
My birth family loved the "What if. . ." game. Unquestionably the root of my iffing problem.
My "if" issue arises freom the "If you hadn't been born, then my life would be better" stuff my sister spun as early as my third-fourth year (or as early as I can remember, in other words). "If you'd just...." "If you weren't so...." Oh, yes.
In Fantasy, my sister and dad had a perfect little docile Leo and then there's "OR" (Our Reality) ... If Or....
Sorry you are chewing on "if" and hope you can spit it out soon before it poisons you.
If should be band for all languages. If is not my friend and often throws me down the stairs and straight into hell. If has no place in the recovery of those of us with ptsd or anxiety but there it is.
If (there it is again) you find the solution be sure and share it or better put, when you find the solution.
My strictly personal, just a patient solution is to refine my "IF" habits similar to how I reverse-engineered the Hyper-vigilance which was built by over-stimulating my natural, built in monitoring system (fear, fight, etc.) The gift was given to me for a reason. Now to get it back to beneficial proportions.
My first sorting question is, "Can I get the "IF" out of it?" If I can get the if out of it, move to workable idea column. If I can't, move to appropriate "I.F. Acronym" column.
The "Inner Fantasy" column sure is filling up fast.
The "Idiot Factor" column has long been embarrassingly full.
"Inner Frankie?" Love the artistry, but I always did feel Frank Sinatra and cronies as major patrons of the Kiddie Whorehouse scene. Just another batch of Janes and Johns in the 5-star sewers to this throw-away kid. Still. . . gotta love the music.