I have recently been diagnosed with an “overactive brain-stem.” I tell you this because I find the diagnosis hilarious, and not a slap-the-knee…holding-my-belly… bent-over kind of funny, after spending thousands of dollars on specialists from allergists to ENTs to neurologists and so on.
I should have quit after hearing the term “highly reactive.”
I’m not hyper-active, but my mind leans heavy on overdrive. I wish my physicality had the tendencies to stretch in the same direction. The funnier thing is I am the calmest person I know…unless you really piss me off then I will never let that shit go.
I love that I have an excuse to bandy around while my mind wanders into a million other things, hold on a minute… I don’t act “blonde,” I have an overactive brain stem. #WTF and, no, this has nothing to do with the title of my post, but you know...OABS is my new acronym.
So I am curious if this mind-altering discovery could be the potential stimulating multi-personality, debilitating dysfunction many writerly types succumb? I mean how many stories do we work over in our minds at once?
These are my thoughts while I contemplate whether my mascara carries a strange resemblance to Peppa Pig’s mother, mummy pig, and feel the need to weep while coming up with a potential victorious plot.
My son, if asked, will tell you he was raised by wolves. As his mother I know better by the damaged storm drains, migraines, and extra baby weight I still carry now twenty years later. He intricately was born indoors, albeit induced and never gorged on raw meat with his friends. And while as a youngster I forced him to dress in the fashions I purchased and chose, a fur-lined hood? in his teens and early adult-hood his choices became his own.
After a recent death, I listened to a grieving family member carry a detailed conversation about how they remembered, or chose to remember, certain events, made up interactions that never took place, but in this confused head they had. The recollection a cycled replay I would hear more than once. And it made my brain stem tingle…
If my son was raised by wolves, then what could I say about my upbringing? Why am I the way I am, regardless of conditions? And how can a person, no-this kid never roamed the hills either, believe they physically were present in situations when reality kept them states away?
Preposterously mind-blowing, proving that if a liar tells the same story enough the events in an overactive imagination become true. I prefer Judge Judy’s rendering, “If you tell the truth you don’t have to have a good memory.” but somehow people have the ability to brain-wash themselves.
(or this one)
How can a small grain of truth, if any truth at all, form a mountain of hogwash and continue to expand? I will tell you this…the next time I hear my son tell his tale of solitude and need to hunt for caribou, I will grab a bar of soap. Raised by wolves? I think not…
Irish Spring as toothpaste should jog his memory well.
Write On! ❤ Jess
Question of the Month,
(I am not even a week late, yippee!)
Rambling Writers Conclusion….we become our own story…regardless of situation