That stuff, well, once you stop learning about those things, you’re dead—even if your body is still walking about, going through the motions of life. That’s existing, simply not being buried yet.
Scars makes sense for the body—stop bleeding, prevent an infection, protect the break—quickly—to keep us alive and then repair the harm as fast as possible. Gotta keep going after all. But, some scars heal up better than others.
Scary as hell living in Brooklyn, the deadliest place on earth for Covid-19. For a few grim weeks.
The armed troops and the ID cards are gone now, but low-flying planes are still unnerving.
Resilience after 9-11—it’s about what happens in the mind as much as on the ground.
Something completely different?
Unless someone is familiar with the ideas from Thomas Khun’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, calling psychology “one step up from witchcraft” sounds like the first shot from someone planning a war on psychology. That reading takes the angry words of a disillusioned 22-year-old too literally, even if it was how he had meant them in 1984—long before he understood how science was born, or how disciplines grow and change.
While avoiding as much contact with the world as reasonably possible as a husband, father and self-employed writer provided some sanctuary, I remained assailed by accumulating effects, both psychic and physical.
The unwelcomed journey back to the land of the damned wasn’t apparent at first.
Having escaped the world of the damned and back on a clumsy, but effective seizure prophylactic, I waited until my brain healed from the neurosurgeon’s saw and scalpels. Once the swelling receded and the scaring was set, I was given an EEG that, if clear, would let me say goodbye to phenytoin, be drug-free once again. As I had been for seventeen years before the rude growth under my temporal lobe slapped the epileptic label back on me.
In the neurologist’s office, electrodes were pasted to my scalp. Read More