States Of Mind, States Of Body
It may seem to some, if not many, although probably not most and certainly not all, that I am excessively preoccupied with my own states of mind. Or, perhaps, the word is obsessed. Some might even detect a certain whining in my various expressions of mental dissatisfaction. To those, I would suggest that "whining" involves much in the way of expression and little in the way of action. What I am engaged in is a process whereby I might wrest control of my self from my corpus. Further, there are those of a flakier, New Ageish pseudo-Eastern bent who would tell me that the mind-body dichotomy I am engaged in exploring is illusory at best. To which, I reply, drink a bottle of vodka, will yourself to remain sober, and we shall discuss the issue.
The point of the exercise, then, is to reclaim some measure of control over what has been a caroming sort of life, not so much directionless as overly directed by the vagaries of neurochemistry, many of which, I will admit, have at their root some component of developmental trauma. External experience has a lasting impact on the physical pathways of the brain, but such impacts are exacerbated, reinforced, and made permanent by subsequent behavioral choices, particularly when those choices involve substances and or foodstuffs that act in particular ways in the body.
So, while I meander here on these pages about cheese and alcohol and all of these external agents that have affected a seemingly hapless me, it is always with the knowledge that many of these external agents required my cooperation to have their way with me, so it's not as though I'm seeking a solution that doesn't require effort on my part. (There were, of course, certain agents that neither required nor had my consent, but I'll address those elsewhere). While I'm experimenting with new ways of dealing with my body as a way of tending to my self, I am also seeking out new experiences, in new environments, as a way of breaking out of the well-trod pathways that have, until now, defined my life.
This, then, more than bad foodstuffs or alcohol or anything else, lies at the root of my anxious mornings, my bouts of anxiety, and all of the other swings of mood and affect that have been such plagues to me. The behaviors I engaged in were responses to as well as causes of misery, and those seminal negative experiences must be dealt with as well as the resultant behavioral patterns.
This, then, is my state of mind as I look out over landscapes of moon-drawn saltwater patiently wearing away the stone of Patrick's Point. It's not particularly poetic or even poignant when I describe it with such clinical language, but these are just rational words I use to describe the sense of movement within my soul, as ossified layers of distress yellow, crack, and fall away.
