that word has been houding me in recent weeks. it has been popping out of my mouth at unexpected moments in unexpected context. should i 'fess up that the stigmatic horror i have encountered has generated a soundtrack from the jukebox in my head. the broadway classic tune, "the impossible dream." peter o'toole is leading the charge singing, "to run where the brave dare not go."

the stigmatic horror has been from adults. sorry to have pushed your buttons, my grammar-policing dear. c'mon, peter. let us find another windmill to joust around with and leave these bozos to sort their own. they is what they is and they ain't what they ain't. hope healing happens here.

the important convo is taking place with an 11 year old boy. the word, "psychosomatic" is intriguing him and he wants to hear more. yes, this is the same 6th grader who has been experiencing a wave of mystery pain after mystery pain since he was handed the social studies assignment to make a dia de los muertos ofrenda for an ancestor. he decided to make his ofrenda for two ancestors. mom and dad, deceased 21 september 2019. the wild goose chases through medical parks has produced the predictable shrugs and lugs. i am blessed with a partner who is okay with those wild goose chases through medical parks. i can't handle them. my own wild goose chases through medical parks --both for myself and two sons-- have left me with a psychotic aversion to the smell of antisceptics.

the nursing dialog between my ailing foster son and i has been about psychosomatics, with the dogmatic pollution of, "it's all in your head." "you are just making it up." "you got bats in your belfry, little kid. shut up and fuck." etcetera. etceteri. so far i have seen no evidence that he has ever heard those dogmatic conjectures. in our discussion, we are discussing the way the mind interacts with the body. he is intrigued and beginning to come up with angles which i had never considered.

my running anxiety is that i am leading him to psychotic places. my own herstory of psychosis is profound enough to have me forever hypervigilant and my own psychotic wonderlands feel more real to me than the vague norms of society at large. wishing i had someone to provide reality checks on all the gory details just wishing.

sorting. . .

groping. . .

shaking trees in hopes that a fit nut will fall out.

today i leave the mood icon squarely on "okay." yeah, it's mind-twisting, but i've worked with less. the current base of operations is secure enough to handle the stress load.