Innuendo is an interesting language subject to study, mainly because whatever meaning and intention attached to your actual words occur inside the other person’s mind. Yup, Welcome to Hell.
It’s a similar outcome of paranoia, too, that whatever the other person says is misconstrued as meaning something sinister about the long-eared paranoiac.
I never did get very far with my linguistics studies. And the both times I had the chance to study semantics and pragmatics, I contracted the flu and, inevitably for me, bronchitis. Well, it’s up to me, now.
Right now I’ve decided to study a bit of this and a bit of that until I organically develop a passion for a subject. One day it’s diabetes and what random glucose testing is, the next, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy for Anger FOR DUMMIES. Today I’ve forayed into a dog psychology book, “Inside A Dog”, by Alexandra Horowitz.
I asked a friend if he and his partner who have known me well and for a decade now, if they thought I was a bad poet. He didn’t say, “Fuck no, you’re a genius!” Unfortunately. Instead he said, “We think you can be good at whatever you set your mind to.” Funny, Mum says that too. Dad says to just shut my trap and do it if I really want to get somewhere. Bro has more tact and patience and says, “Maybe get out to see the world more…” Well, lots of good advice, and yet, ultimately it’s my decision.
I got to know myself better this week though. I am my father’s daughter ultimately. Except where it comes to self-discipline, at which he surpasses me, I am a spitting image of his character: if he can do it, so can his daughter. With Mum, I have her gesticulations and looks, her deep sense of empathy for the underdog, and her desire for the opportunity to learn – about everything and anything. You know, put them together, Mum and Dad make a good feminist.
There are a lot of things in life that are hard to bear, yet you succeed. But when you think of that one thing that makes you cringe, GAME OVER. Temporary paralysis isn’t so annoying as having that freezing moment where all the flashbacks flood your heart and mind. You still have to keep typing through the tears. You still have to keep functioning. People with PTSD have it hard. I am not quite so severe and would only insult them if I were to compare myself with them, so, with the iota that I do identify, I humbly bow and wish them good health, long life and prosperity in everything, with reverence. No, I’m not mocking, either. It’s greatly misunderstood and stigmatized as it is even more greatly under-diagnosed and dismissed.
I guess in that way, I’m lucky. I didn’t end up with PTSD. I always used to ask for a dog for emotional comfort and bonding and love. Now it seems to make some more sense. How I knew what I needed, I don’t know. Since having decided to accept my singlehood status as a lifetime reality, I’m branching off elsewhere, and praying all the time, reframing things, checking my catastrophizing at the liminal part of my consciousness, and lastly LEARNING NOT TO HATE. I laugh instead. I know, it’s similar. But the first reaction rather than hating is to see the absurdity in the situation, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone , ultimately. Sometimes, hate is truly laughable. And sometimes, laughing at the situation (not the person) is all the recourse you have to turn things around – for yourself, for people around for you. I don’t know if you can help the paranoiac if s/he doesn’t have insight and a desire to listen to advice.
Maybe, like Mr. Kim on CBC’s comedy series, Kim’s Convenience, says, “sometiiimmme (things) takeh time…”
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