I Am Thankful for My Fucked-Up Brain
Story Number 14: Woes and Gifts Number 5
(Written 11/21/22)
As Thanksgiving is once again upon us, I am reflecting, not for the first time, that I am thankful for my fucked-up brain. I am not thankful, per se, for the things that led to it being fucked-up. The things that set the foundation for my brain being fucked-up are childhood emotional and sexual abuse, abandonment issues, and a genetic predisposition for depression that has come to fruition. And knowing what I know about mental health and history, I would not want to miss giving appropriate due to the possibility of historical trauma (being of Jewish and Irish ancestry) and transgenerational trauma (my mom carried the abandonment from being given up for adoption directly to me when she left me to be cared for by my dad without even telling me she was not coming back). Laid on that foundation from my childhood is PTSD from my career as a Child Protective Services social worker and then the loss I experienced due to the Paradise Camp Fire. It is definitely the PTSD that has my brain being the most fuckedy-upped, but I know the foundational things gave the PTSD a nutrient-rich, welcoming place to grow. The door was open wide and my brain rolled out the red carpet and said, “Yes please, PTSD, come on in and make yourself at home! Would you like a nice cup of tea? Have a seat, let me fluff those pillows for you!”
I say “not thankful, per se,” because I fully acknowledge that without these experiences throughout my lifetime, I would not be the person I am, and I love who I am. I love my level of compassion for others. I love the social worker I was and what I was able to offer my clients because of my own experiences: professionalism that involved advocacy and thoroughness, true caring and know how, and deep understanding. I love my depth of feeling and my zest and complex appreciation and gratitude for life. It is hard, and not fully accurate, to say I am “glad” I have a history of parental neglect, depression, and PTSD, but this is who I am. And I really like me; I think I am a cool person.
I guess I should define what exactly I mean by “fucked-up brain.” My brain has a tendency to mishear or missee and have what are known as intrusive thoughts triggered by hearing or seeing things. The intrusive thoughts started during my three-plus years spent working as a children’s counselor at the Santa Crazy County Children’s Shelter. This was a time when I was also doing my graduate work in Criminal Justice and reading a lot about serial killers and sex offenders. Intrusive thoughts can be a hallmark of PTSD, but I was 24 years away from having PTSD at that point, so I guess my brain was just priming the pump. The first intrusive thoughts I had, and still have, are when I see a cooler, apparently abandoned, tossed away, or lost, on the side of the freeway, on a street, or in a waterway, my brain will always offer up, “I bet there are body parts in there.” I will picture feet, hands, heads or a combination thereof, or if the cooler is especially large, then surely it contains a torso. This is horrible, disgusting, and not statistically accurate to think all the coolers I have seen over the years contain body parts (though not improbable that some could have), and absurd; I know!
And what may this cooler contain? Feet? Hands? A mixture of both? Probably not a head. Definitely not a torso.
Getty Images
I will never forget when I took a training about secondary trauma and social workers (secondary trauma is what one gets from being exposed to the traumatic events lived by others). Our instructor had been a CPS social worker, supervisor and deputy director of a social services agency, was a researcher, an author, a professor, and had her LCSW and a doctorate. At the beginning of the class she recounted this story: She and a carload of her non-social worker girlfriends were headed to a spa weekend in a beautiful, wooded, remote area and her companions were expounding on the beauty and magnificence of the area, happy and looking forward to such a great, relaxing weekend. They kept repeating how wonderful the area was and my instructor blurted out, “Well somebody who lives up here is molesting their kids.” She said it was like a bomb went off in the car and the buoyant, blissful mood was killed as a pall of despair set in. She was not trying to ruin the mood or be a buzzkill, her thought was just a common thought had by seasoned social workers, which again, none of her friends were. And I recognized the arc of that thought, bubbling up from the depths of a tortured psyche and the uncontrolled compulsion to blurt it out. Such thoughts, child molestation and incest, and way more, are “normal” lunch table talk for social workers, but, admittedly, it is not for most other people. Her story did help me understand that I was not alone in having my weird, disturbing, fucked-up thoughts.
I do have a propensity for all things absurd, hence my moniker, The Absurdess, so I know my penchant for silliness, outrageousness, ironicity and absurdity all play into the fuckupedness of my brain. And for this I am actually profoundly grateful, because in the dark, morbid, disturbed, sorrow-ridden depths of my brain there also lives my gleeful, playful, goofy, ludicrous, delightfully merry and impish sense of humor. I had an unconventional childhood and upbringing which included, yes, Disney movies, but also Mad Magazine, Monty Python, and National Lampoon, and it was at those full breasts of buffoonery that I was suckled more than at the tiny childish teats of comicality. There was no way my brain was not going to be a magnet for all things odd, unorthodox, and maverick—this was destiny. So I am not surprised that my intrusive PTSD thoughts, hallucinations, and misaudiations too are bizarre and eccentric.
Now here are some examples of my fucked-up brain: I pull up to our local pharmacy, which has cute gifts displayed in the window, for example the ceramic, round plaque that proclaims, “I love meth.” Upon closer inspection it actually says, “Love by the moon” with a whimsical crescent moon and star impressions in the clay. But my brain sees what it sees and meth was such a huge part of our work at CPS. “Wow, Bunny,” I marvel, “You are fucked-up!” and go into the pharmacy and do my shopping.
I love meth—well, it’s what my brain saw.
Also local, driving into our quaint town, a sign lets passersby know that on the third right is our local hotel. But no, what does Bunny’s brain see on the sign but that the hotel is located on the “Third Reich.” Oy vey.
A shop I saw: Books * Movies * Music!! No, why have that when you can have “Boobs * Movies * Music”?
Books, not boobs, apparently.
A lovely and funny Facebook post about housecat tracks in the snow, and I love cats, but what does my brain focus on? The weird shadow that is cast over the cat tracks that is probably an innocent loop of rope but in my brain is clearly a hangman’s noose. After viewing the post, I kept reading the caption over and over to try and make sense of the shadow of the noose, as that was what the post was about, in my brain. It took me awhile to understand that the focus was cat tracks in the snow, as the caption clearly explained, and not the shadow, a shadow that most other people probably do not realize is even there, as focused as they are on the intended and appropriate image—cute cat tracks!!! And . . . I . . . LOVE . . . CATS, that is how much my brain has to be fucked-up!!! How can I miss anything about cats?!
How cute, cat tracks.
No, not about a hangman’s noose.
I am driving with my brother and sister-in-law around the wonderful Pacific Northwest in search of property for us to buy. We drive by a sloping property with a white, picket fence and situated on the property is the largest, most magnificent tree with grand, sweeping branches and shade for days. Larry and Elsa are talking about what a perfect tree for a tire swing, or better yet, a front-porch style swing, perfect for handholding and intimate talks. But up pops into my brain, “What a perfect tree for people to by lynched from.” Sigh.
A really sad, horribly intrusive thought I can have, which for awhile was pretty frequent, but thankfully is very rare now, is upon seeing cute, precious young children, especially babies, I at first think, “How cute!” but this is quickly swept aside by internal visions and thoughts of someone throwing the cute, innocent baby brutally up against a wall. The things I have seen. The things I know. I curse my career for putting these images into my brain. This is the reward for my service. For a very long time, outside of my job, I was avoidant when it came to babies and small children, which is quite the task when trying to go shopping. It is any wonder that some people with PTSD do not like to leave their homes? But I push through and battle these demons, most times.
There is a charming older man in my congregation who always has the most wonderful, infectious, sincere smile on his face. The first time I saw him when I started going to services, the thought that popped into my mind was that he reminded me of my grandfather, Charles Tex (shortened from Teixeira. In all likelihood my grandfather probably had Asperger’s, but he was seen as “weird” and any relationship I might have had with him was not fostered; and this makes me sad, he was nice to me). But the thought about his resemblance to my grandfather was quickly replaced by, “My God, he also looks like Josef Mengele!” and for the longest time Mengele was all I could see when I looked at this nice man.
As for my mishearing, those instances are usually spectacular. I was at the laundromat with my 15-year-old niece, Kyri’e. After taking her to her driving lessons, we were waiting for my laundry to finish and we were sitting in my car chatting. I was vaguely aware that there were people in the car next to us, because I had my back to them, and one of them had their feet out the window as it was a warm day. Kyri’e stated, “His sacks are hanging out the window.” Instantly my mind is going through all the ins and outs of this, which included, “Why does a guy have his testicles sticking out of the window?! Is he doing this intentionally so my niece can see his balls?! I am going to have to get out of the car and kick his ass for being an obscene asshole!!??” As I had those thoughts, my rage was rising as no one should be victimized for someone else’s titillation and pleasure!!! How dare he!!! But at the same time, because aside from being fucked-up, my brain can also be brilliant in its ability to compartmentalize and analyze. So along with my rising rage and protective nature, sat my scientist, lab coat included, who wondered, “Well how in the hell is he managing this feat? How does he have his legs up, his feet out the window, holding up his body weight, but his testicles are hanging out? Is he also a contortionist? Is this even physically possible and in alignment with physics? I have to know this!” The pissed off protector and the scientist in my brain were having these thoughts simultaneously, in a matter of milliseconds, as the rational, logical, sane person who also lives in there (mostly) thought, “No wait, she said ‘socks,’” and then came the laughter as I explained to Kyri’e just what had gone through my mind. And laugh we did, so hard the car was shaking, stomachs were hurting, and tears were flowing. Yes, spectacular.
My most recent mishearing was this past weekend at family dinner and game night, as my other niece, 13-year-old Tali, was explaining how her “toe knuckles” had been hurting her because she had been “sitting with them” against the table leg, but what dear Aunt Bunny heard was that Tali’s toe knuckles hurt “when she had syphilis.” After educating Tali what syphilis was, disease-wise, and its historical arc and current reemergence (Aunt Bunny, the fount of essential knowledge for all young people), and confirming that Tali indeed does not, nor has ever had, syphilis, Tali, Larry, Elsa, and I had a really good laugh.
And this is what I do now with the manifestations of my fucked-up brain, I laugh. It is absurd the things my brain comes up with; scary, horrifying and sad, but still absurd. However, when I first retired as a social worker from Snafu County and moved to the Pacific Northwest to be with my family, ultimately displaced by the Paradise Camp Fire, and raging with many symptoms of depression and complex PTSD, I did not share with my family the intrusive thoughts that would pop into my brain. At that time I was flooded with so many symptoms as to be basically non-functional for over ten months. I did not tell anyone what was popping into my brain because the things were so disturbing, plentiful, and unwanted, and were a terrible reminder of what I had witnessed and heard throughout my nearly 17 year career in child protection, things people should not be exposed to, things that haunted my mind, a mind that was also tortured by profound loss.
But now as my symptoms are abating (mostly) and I am not struggling just to get through a day (mostly), I can actually appreciate the absurdity of these thoughts that are feeling less and less intrusive and, wow, we are able to have some really good laughs at the expense of my fucked-up brain.
I am also thankful for my sense of humor. When I am moving through my daily life and I am faced with Paradise Found iced tea at Starbucks or Paradise Enchanted eye shadow at the store I can see it, face it, laugh loudly at it, completely not caring what onlookers might think, and move on, only because I have an absurd sense of humor. That is not to say that the word “paradise” is still not a niggling irritant, but at least I can laugh at the absurdity of the current situation. (For more about this you can read my Paradise Not story.)
Really? Does it have chunks of charcoal in it? Sprinkled with ash perhaps? Just laugh, Bunny, just laugh!
And what would I do if I did not have my well-developed, beloved, wacky, irreverent, sharp, gallows, silly sense of humor to get me through all I have been through? My early exposure to mature, irreverent humor and my ability to appreciate and love irony and absurdity has helped me save myself. I have a lot of tools I have used to pull myself ashore from my sea of depression and PTSD, to be sure, but my humor allows for lightness and joy and laughter instead of being consumed by anger, bitterness, despair, and suicidality. My humor is my wings that I brush, with love, in the face of the horrors of life, that I part to show that life is still there and still worth living and it is bright and fantastic and absurd, even if it is fucked-up. And I am so, so profoundly thankful for the brain that I have, even if it is fucked up, or maybe, because it is fucked-up.
Beauty can grow from the dark, depths. Horror can fertilize joy. Behold my wonderful, fucked-up brain.