Mining for Gems

I am beginning to believe in the body of yaddahs for managing my cPTSD flashbacks which I have been calling, "Mining for Gems." It begins with the observation that, like my computer's hard drive, my bio hard drive (my brain) cannae tell the diff between a Hallmark moment and a S & M orgy. A digit is a digit is a digit. In my bio hard drive, a preferred memory acts the same as a loathed memory. A memory is a memory is a memory. The passing of judgement happens in a different brain center. The memory remains a memory, no matter how deep I bury it in Dante's Inferno. Proof unavailable, but I believe this is the very mechanism by which my TIA manifested. Even the sweetest of my childhood memories eventually lead to trauma. Best to forget all, whether it needs forgiving or knot.

Busy, busy, busy running into the future. The past and present holds nothing worth keeping. Do, do, do. Achieve that future. Ply denial, over-compensation and isolation, as needed. Agree with me or ye shall be left to the demons on my tail.

The newest farm handy built a Man Cave in my Tinker's Den within the awkward space which used to hold cattle while humans did humanly things to their back ends, be it artificial insemination, electro-ejaculation or gelding. I have endured some horrific trauma in Man Caves and the flashback series started with trigger speeds when I peeked over the door and smelled the testosterone.

Just breathe. . .

As the panic attack stabilized, memories of fort building bubbled gently across the trauma flashbacks. Was that Big Bro's gentle touch I felt upon my shoulder from The Great Beyond? He was the collaborator in some of my greatest childhood forts. When there were no peer bullies or grup (grown-up) pervs fucking with us, we were quite a team. Our forts were worthy of coveting by the bullies who eventually stole those forts from us to repurpose as Cunt Clubs or Dick Dens. An older girl bully is every bit as mean as an older boy bully. A bully is a bully is a bully inside the kid packs. At least the dicks were receiving lectures about not picking on girls. The cunts were being taught their punches and kicks were all sugar and spice. It seems pretty obvious you havenae ever met my 5 sisters. Me neither, Cum Wad.

I have been channeling the etherreal energies of the flashback series into the camp site which is growing around the cabin tent which still sits in the south end of the horehound test field. As the grup pervs have surfaced in my memory, I have transferred their faces into the path of my weedeater or hammer head. ZAP! ! ! Don't do that to children, Perv Ass. NOT EVER! ! !

I have been far gentler with the bully faces. Yes, bullying is also traumatic, but the bullies are still children. Teach not torture. I was smaller than them then, but that hasnae been true for a very long time. A 16 year old cunt or dick looks far different to me now than it did when I was 6. If I can ply the inner child theories to one living memory, can I nay apply them to all those bully brats who still haunt my psyche? Gammy Me has far more resources than Little Me did.

It appears to have become second (3rd or 6th?) nature to me to hold still and steady during the sensory floods of a flashback series. The yaddahs of those blahs distort and shift with the ease of a fog bank. Self-gaslighting is an inherant risk. Less is more. Easy does it. Certainty still unavailable, but I have taken to calling this flashback series, "Fort Wars." My military training didnae ever teach me so much about defense perimeters, et al, but then I was in the Nerd (Signal) Corps. We were trained to let the Grunt Corps handle that part. Have you guys tested the weapon potential of a milk thistle head?

Before the 1 acre horse pen was designated as my horehound test field, my Robocop broke away from his e-toys for long enough to begin setting up a "Zen Center" where he could lose his e-stresses every so often. The rock and wood bench he set up there has had time to fall apart and grow thick with wild rye grass. Hubby's eyes twinkled nostagically when he saw my weedeater had excavated the pieces and I had reassembled them so that I could weedeat a cleaner line around the bench. The wood pieces were still too wet for comfortable sitting, but sit a spell we did. It is an excellant spot for a zen space and/or test field observation post. A good space is worthy of many names, especially when it is well fortified by a ring of milk thistle.

I am risking the sin of pride over my test field and dangling carrots in hopes of taunting the farm handy into a fort building competition. En garde. I feel Big Bro circling mischievously in hopes that he will take the bait.

Still toe-tapping in anticipation of the coop arrival. Is it here yet?