Laughter is one of the most powerful immune boosters, stress calmers, and depression antidotes around — and it’s freeee. (Also: hoarders cannot make off with it, leaving everyone around them depleted. Rat finks.)
The super-Scooby Friend Links to unlimited binging of my tales on Medium:
It doesn’t mean we’re not affected. We are. But we do have certain skills that have been, until now, highly underrated — even denigrated — by a great many people. Hence my butter-glazed middle fingers.
So...the formatting on this site is tedious. As tedious as detangling all the thread spools that the cats have batted around inside the box...like they do. Which is exactly what this next post is about. I've been a little prolific lately, so here are all the most recent links for your binging pleasure.
“You know how you get scared or worried or nervous but you don’t want to be scared or worried or nervous so you push it to the back of your mind; you try not to think about it…It’s like a filter in your brain that keeps your feelings in check. She feels everything. She can’t not.”
~Simon Tam, on speaking of his sister, River, and her damaged brain, Firefly
The super-Scooby Friend Link for the post on Medium:
I have a terrible history of throttling myself with a choke chain in order to protect the not-so-innocent (and thereby myself, in some convoluted fashion). Now here I stand on the precipice again. Traditionally, I will co...
My neuropsychologist: You have to treat your brain as though it is a four-year-old.
Me: Hah. A four-year-old who’s been kept up until 11:00 at night in a crowded restaurant and just really, really wants to go to bed but every time you try to wrap it in a blankie in the corner, it throws a tantrum, along with every toy you try to give it.
My NP: Actually, that is a very accurate description. The trick is to not keep it up that late.
Me: Good luck with that. Every place outside my house is that crowded restaurant and it’s always 11:00 at night.
Me: …and I know it. I can feel it. Every glitch. Every time I run face-first into a wall. Every single little nuance of everything I can’t do anymore. I can FEEL it and it’s driving me crazy!
My NP: Yes. Because of the degree of sensitivity you were born with, and because of the level of intellect and all the abilities you started out with — and that in some ways you still have — you will, unfortunately, be excruciatingly aware of everyt...
I was astounded the other day to learn from one of my students and closest friends that, upon first hearing about me, she had been told I had suffered broken bones and fractured vertebrae, and had been incapable of walking.
More astounding was that this misinformation had come from an equally dear friend and one of my most die-hard students.
And so the Telephone Game goes.
Allow me to set the record straight. I had one single abrasion on my forearm. Otherwise, no lacerations, broken bones, fractures, punctures, and my brain injury is classified as “Mild” because all the damage took place within a completely closed skull—and skin, for that matter.
Naturally, that means after a few months and maybe some slight residual naggings, I was “all better.” Right? I mean, we’ve seen the Hollywood tales. We know all about the horrific extreme sports heroes and accident survivors with broken necks and cracked skulls and coma patients and NDEs who are now back at it as though it never happened.
We’re at my aunt and uncle’s house in Forest Lake for the holiday. Their neighbors have a huge pool. Missy is lying down because she ate too many cherries. It made her tummy ache. I ate a lot of them, too, but not as many as she did. I don’t have a tummy ache, so I am in the pool alone.
All the adults are in the shade, eating, drinking, smoking, laughing. The older kids are in the deep end. I don’t know how to swim yet, so I have to stay over here by myself.
That’s okay. I’m used to playing by myself. Sometimes it’s nicer that way. The sun is perfect. The breeze is perfect. The water is the perfect amount of cool. It makes my feet feel better after standing on the hot cement.
I want some more of those cherries, but I don’t want a tummy ache, so I stay in the pool. I like the way the water makes me feel when I bob up and down. I jump up and, for just a second, it’s like I can fly. I spring off the bottom, splash up, and then it catches me. I float down slow, giggle,...
“What happened?” the taxi driver asks me as I lurch my way in and wrangle the seatbelt around me.
“Drunk driver rammed me on the freeway.”
His eyes fly open. “By Uintah?”
“And you’re WALKING?”
I shrug. “Mm-hmm. They say I’m fine.
There’s movement off to the side of me. Dad has come in from the kitchen. I lean back farther on the couch to look at him because I can’t turn my head. His mouth is moving. He’s saying something, but I can’t—
I can’t hear him.
I haven’t gone deaf. The TV is still on. More mouths moving. Background laughter from the sitcom crowd. A little ditty of music as the scene flips.
Dad tilts his head. He gets that look. I know that look. He’s repeating himself.
And I can’t hear him.
I try to tell him. I try to explain what's happening but I don't understand it myself. My mouth is hanging open. I can feel it. My throat contracts.