In an hour, I will go back to C’s house and attempt to talk to her about some stuff. Mostly my expectations of her, but there is also a feeling that I need to explain my wish to help her learn how to regulate her emotions better, because I think it would help her if she understood why I do things.

The trigger for the Hannibal Lechter memories was meat. It was C in her kitchen chopping meat the last time I saw her before I left for the Capitol City. It just got put on hold for 11 days until I got through the triggers of boredom, cramped leg pain, cold, and less-than-familiar city, C not being in touch (therefore worry over her safety plus fears of abandonment).

Then I came home and had some breathing room.

Anyway, I dealt with them for a while. If I have time and a hot water bottle and a blanket, I seem to be able to get through most things. I am not done with this, but I did a round with it. I suppose there will be another round of it tomorrow.

I know I have experienced a shift in my beliefs about it though. This is not an indication of things going wrong. This is an indication of things going right. My brain is finally able to do its thing: it is forming a memory out of an experience. It didn’t do this before for many reasons. One of them being that I couldn’t regulate the emotions enough to think straight.

There is sort of this general quandary about human beings: Why do human beings have PTSD and few animals do? Well, we have human brains to contend with. It’s more complicated and is harder to keep in good working order because it evolved kind of like an engine kept running with bailing wire and chewing gum. It is not a machine, designed with every part put together for optimum functioning. And I had parents who could not help my brain develop. They probably did not have parents who could help them either. They learned denial and control: because people turn to control over their environments when they do not feel safe in them. They did not learn how to calm down and they could not help me learn to calm down.

Then they inundated me with horrific emotional experiences.

I mean, they emotionally broke my legs and then gave me a marathon to run.

After 42 years, I can finally run it.

So that is what is happening.

And now I am going to try to talk to C, although I have not quite worked out what to say and am not sure I can do it on the fly. But all I can do is try.

I figured out something today, incidentally. I am not perfect. All I can do is try. It may not be enough, what I can do, but I can’t do better than that. It is possible that imperfect is not “good enough,” but if I need to be perfect to succeed I will fail at absolutely everything I do.

Did I mention that? I may have.