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Is my Beekeeper Allergy "Off Topic?" Dealing with it sure feels like a PTSD episode, but. . . At the same time, it is happening here and now. There is nothing "post" about it.
Anyhoo. . .
I might be bracing for yet another surf through the medical parks to find a doctor to help me through this, but. . . Sorting through all the Pro Speak wearies me horribly. I find it easier to translate English to Mandarin than translating Pro Speak to my real world.
My psycho focus is on those panic attacks that have popped up since my last stings donated their evidence. Me, afraid of bees? I have had more loving relationships with bees than I have with humans. . . Immeasurably more. Me and bees go back allot further than hubby's hobby. More than half a century. I visited allot of wild bee colonies in the fields surrounding the rural rent houses my parents kept moving us around to. My parents did not like houses with neighbors close enough to hear the screams. . . I felt much safer visiting wild bee colonies than my parent's bedroom.
Reclaiming the compost pile --next to the 3 hives and a nuc in our half acre suburban yard-- remains my goal for this step. I have not turned the compost since those last stings a few months ago. It sure does need it. The plants are booming in and around it. At least I know the plants think it is nummy compost.
Still sorting. . .
Anyhoo. . .
I might be bracing for yet another surf through the medical parks to find a doctor to help me through this, but. . . Sorting through all the Pro Speak wearies me horribly. I find it easier to translate English to Mandarin than translating Pro Speak to my real world.
My psycho focus is on those panic attacks that have popped up since my last stings donated their evidence. Me, afraid of bees? I have had more loving relationships with bees than I have with humans. . . Immeasurably more. Me and bees go back allot further than hubby's hobby. More than half a century. I visited allot of wild bee colonies in the fields surrounding the rural rent houses my parents kept moving us around to. My parents did not like houses with neighbors close enough to hear the screams. . . I felt much safer visiting wild bee colonies than my parent's bedroom.
Reclaiming the compost pile --next to the 3 hives and a nuc in our half acre suburban yard-- remains my goal for this step. I have not turned the compost since those last stings a few months ago. It sure does need it. The plants are booming in and around it. At least I know the plants think it is nummy compost.
Still sorting. . .
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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...
A weird little memory set which has been haunting this little evolution is my linguistic development. My speech development was way delayed. I was nearly adolescent before I could speak reliably. A peevish little girl voice has been echoing quietly --not for the first time-- saying, "What do you mean I can't talk? Come out and talk to the birds with me."
Within this is a unconfirmed memory, (early elementary shcool?), I was building my crawdad corrals (always a solitary enterprise for me) in some creek or other when a bee came buzzing around my head. It was a gentle, yet persistent buzz. I thought she was asking for help. I followed and she flew to the entrance of a hive in the ground beneath a tree. A tree branch had fallen and lodged itself in the entrance. I removed the branch and. . . Oh Happy Buzz. . .
Hm=m=m=m. . . Not verifiable, but I find myself inclined to trust it as a valid memory. I still do stuff like this on my field excursions.
Down that same flirtation with psychiatricly unapproved thoughts, I wonder if the current buzz is, "This is not what we trained you for. Anybody can study the Reverend Langstroth and his comfy little bee house designs. We need somebody who can listen."
Rough translation? ? ? If you think translations between human languages is tough, try inter-species translations. . .
Or have I simply fallen down the crazy hole again?
Herstorically, my reaction to stinging insects is less troublesome than my reaction to a mosquito bite. Similar feelings at the time of the infliction. The mosquito bite itches longer. Used to. I thought I felt the Earth move under my feet when I felt the reaction to those last stings. I am still wondering who stole my body to contribute the anxiety attacks that have popped up lately when the bees come to talk to me.
Thank you, min, for endorsing the notion that allergies can come and go. I believe that, also. That is why I am taking the psychotherapy approach more seriously than the hunt for a medical establishment that understands beekeeper ailments. Still a little worried that I am dancing a little too close to the rabbit hole. Insert Jefferson Airplane song here. . .
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WANNqr-vcx0
FWIW, I was 13 when I saw this performance. . .
I miss my river expeditions. . . Austin has a cute little river, but it doesn't go very far.