The sun is finally gracing me with its presence today. It’s needed. The clouds and rain that have been filling the sky every morning have felt oppressive. I could never live in the British Isles. Maybe that is why Ralph Fiennes often looks depressed. I have a nerve in my shoulder that is pinched by muscle tension, and the nerve affects my right arm and hand, at times causing it to be numb. This is painful, but it’s personally troubling as I have a phobia about losing the use of my hands. I no doubt have this fear because I am afraid of losing the ability to write. I have used writing as a way to express myself when I was not allowed to speak for fear of being physically struck. Now I have been harboring this fear that I may lose the use of my dominant hand, which is total bullshit. However, it is the type of fear that manifests when I am highly triggered.
Due to the effects of PTSD, my memory is like a block of Swiss cheese. Some of the drugs I use for anxiety sometimes have an effect on my memory as well, and the occasional effects of dissociation do, too. This plays into another fear that I have, the fear of some disease like Alzheimer’s or dementia attacking my mind; the fear that after all the things my mind has endured, it would collapse in on itself once it could rest.
As it stands I have some indication that my brain development was affected by the conditions in which I was raised. I have difficulty with spatial relations. I think things will fit where they won’t and I have difficulty with abstract concepts of volume. Basically, when I put away leftovers, I often pick containers that are too small because I have difficulty surmising the volume. Sometimes it makes me sad. Most of the time I don’t care.
I’m watching Coriolanus, a film based on one of Shakespeare’s least common plays. I am sympathetic to Caius Martius, the main character. It takes place in Rome, and Caius Martius is a war hero. He’s not just a war hero, he’s THE war hero. He lives and breathes war. He’s banished by his own people because they perceive him as too proud and calloused. In fact, he is lost without conflict, and when asked to play the role of the smiling, medal wielding, dress uniform wearing glory boy, he refuses. He feels it is his duty to defend Rome, and that showing off his medals and battle scars is arrogance. He exists to defend Rome, and to bask in some sort of glory is unnecessary and akin to gloating. He wants to circumvent the pomp and circumstance and get back to war. He is perceived as if he is snubbing the people’s voices. He wants no praise, he only wants action. He is then cast out of the country for which he lived and fought.
Caius decides that as he has been banished, he banishes THEM. There is no love lost, for he has lived for the purpose of defending them, and now they can face fears and foes without his defense. He decides that the place he once lived and fought for, the thing he would have died for, is now his enemy. The ferocity with which he defended Rome will now be turned against it.
I’m very empathetic to Caius. I suppose sympathetic also. I was protective of the biological group with which I was raised. The loyalty I had for them was not reciprocated. It is similar to the dynamic of Caius Martius. I have struggled in my earlier years to keep the beast of hatred at bay. I find I still battle these feelings when I find myself triggered. I battle the urge to give in to my hatred when I am triggered by lecherous fools, men who look at me as though I am a thing, and when memories of the poisoned milk of the mother come back.
I hope each one of them overcomes suffering. For all intensive purposes, they are all dead.