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We understand at least in theory that politicians may not always fact check … at least in an election year. \u00a0As a social network society we often opt to believe the puppet master facts of the super PACs<\/a>\u00a0and not women who have been raped and abused by the system that serves to protect. \u00a0There are no blurred lines when it comes to the moral high ground that we preach and teach to anyone who will listen. \u00a0And no attack seems out of bound when we decide to take matters into our own hands and seek justice for one indivisible and under fraud.<\/p>\n Truth is we don’t know who to trust. \u00a0Best we can do is clean up our own act because we are the constant in the constantly changing scenery of our life landscape. \u00a0At the end of the day we have to live with our Self. \u00a0The choices we make. \u00a0The emotions we cultivate. \u00a0And the stories we tell ourself in our waking moments and dream world.<\/p>\n We may be apt to question the opposing point of view and willing to Google fact storm when we want to make someone wrong. \u00a0But the thoughts we tell ourself, the unquestioned beliefs about our perceived shortcomings or the seemingly unworkable situation in which we stand … we not only don’t think to challenge our conditioned mind we refute anyone that attempts to tread on the egoic Me.<\/p>\n My experience as a sentient being that walks the path with a pebble in my shoe, is that I have a well honed fear response. \u00a0I also know that the hyperadrenergic POTS<\/a>\u00a0that I have causes postural anxiety and panic. \u00a0And yet … when the dysautonomic flare hits like a hot iron with an electric shock that feels like a car battery discharged in my chest … sometimes all of my\u00a0knowing<\/em> can’t stop a conditioned mind from creating stories of doom to match the pots-storm in the moment. \u00a0Even harder are those subtle changes … the creeping pain in the joints and muscles that go from almost bearable to\u00a0…\u00a0oh my flawed I can’t take this anymore I need help. \u00a0And from there the story of not enough … can’t handle … please help me … takes the wheel and drives down a winding road of all too familiar failings.<\/p>\n I believe my own stories when my body is hurting. \u00a0Even though I know better. \u00a0Even though the storms have passed for this half century that I have more of less walked the earth. \u00a0My dysfunctional autonomic system creates the perfect playground for\u00a0sophistry<\/a>\u00a0stories. \u00a0And because the narrator has such a familiar voice … I believe the fallacy hook, line and sinker.<\/a>\u00a0 I am the catch of the day as my mind lures me into the autobiography of the soap operatic melo-me-drama.<\/p>\n Because, in the unquestioned moment, the dis-ease is perfect fodder for the recursive loop — I am that. “But what if it wasn’t?”<\/a>, <\/em>The Grinder.\u00a0 What if we are just acting out the script we are handed (or rehearsed). \u00a0We have played this character for so long that we can no longer distinguish our true nature from the prat falls and call backs of our headliner. \u00a0Reluctant to stray from the plot we add more of the same to our concept of who we are rather than inquire if we are all that. \u00a0Just that. \u00a0That at all.<\/p>\n