Ears and Equalibrium - Sensitive and Hyper

A lot went through me, through my psyche, aura and body in sharp blasts as a child. The formative years shaped me, made me, what was once whole, complete - bombed - shattered, tattered, torn and ripped open.

PTSD - Pulmonary trauma suddenly descending. It's the ear-heart connection. And it's the opposite of understanding. It's beyond comprehension. You fill up with the energy and then you just bust wide open.

Call it implosion.

Ensue here hyper sensitivity and sensory displacement, where sounds become matter and through the reverberations of hyper vigilance you can see red while hearing the trees whisper.

The sensory filters are shot wide open and all enters without guards. They go past the ripped places straight to the heart where it bounces off the original trauma setting in motion the good ol' hormonal influx of cortisole and adrenaline - i.e rapid heart beat, increased anxiety levels. Running - first impulse. Get away. Run for your life.

I've been battered by sound then battered by circumstances. Had my spine broken along with my spirit. That was tough and still is - I need to rest a lot. I have pain - almost constant. It's been almost 18 years now. I'm real weary from walking in the desert, running for the hills and limping when my leg goes numb.

But the clincher were the wars. The Scuds in 91, the Katyushas in 06 and now the Kassams and Grads in 08. Showed up for every war. Right in the middle of them. Coincidence? I don't think so. In 91 we lived in Bnei Brak on the border with Ramat Gan. 33 Katyushas were fired over us during that time of Nachash Tzefa - Rattlesnake. Sirens going off in the middle of the night, before Shabbat anytime. I lived on pills. I had my son with me and two defective gas masks. Living in poverty in the ghetto of Pardess Katz, everything was a problem. Just breathing then became a problem. I shreiked to the shriekings of the missiles - *get your mask on!* Running to the bathroom I decorated with Elvis posters and Mad Magazines. I was a feral child who was a mother trying to do everything my own mother never did for me - yet repeated a lot of her shit with my own offspring. Especially the anxiety which I inherited down the Tree.

Now he's a Lubavicher herding in the wayfayers in the Andes mountains.

Then Hizbollah decided my psyche wasn't crushed enough and bombarded the city of Tzfat with 600 Katyushas and I died a little bit more with each missile falling around and over me in the warehouse called *home* with the broken window. Nice touch. Food foraged between bombs. Cats roamed as if nothing unusual was happening. I fed the strays and scored Rescue Remedy from some kind lady in Tel Aviv who wanted to help. I survived on brandy, pills, Psalms and the internet.

Now Gaza. I'm in it. Right here. Across the way from the insanity. I hear the bursts and low sharp rumbles in the distance. My heart explodes now more due to the maniac on the motorcycle who's claimed the road I live on as his own speedway. Every time he revvs up my heart and soul go to hell and return - real fast. And I down whatever I can to calm myself. My hands have gotten very cold these last days. I stopped wearing a bra. I don't even brush my hair anymore. If it weren't for the cats I wouldn't venture out at all. I have to get them food, so I go. Me? I'd eat the grass. The animal I feel I am. Feral to the core.

Why did mama scream so? It was my grandmother Rebecca who used to calm her down with *SHREI NISHT AZEI CHANI*. Don't scream so Chani. But she did. I was her blasting board. The soccer ball to kick and the scapegoat to blame. It wasn't confined only to me - she screamed at other people and in all places. I got *hit* by those blasts a lot on buses for some reason. I felt pretty horrific all around from the screams and the embarrassment. So many years later, I'm trying to pick up the pieces and put them together again, but damn it all to hell, if there isn't a war to mess things up - just when you think you've got some kind of groove back. Bam. It's gone.