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Excessive Stress Disrupts the Architecture of the Developing Brain

The neural circuits for dealing with stress are particularly malleable (or “plastic”) during the fetal and early childhood periods. Early experiences shape how readily these circuits are activated and how well they can be contained and turned off. Toxic stress during this early period can affect developing brain circuits and hormonal systems in a way that leads to poorly controlled stress response systems that will be overly reactive or slow to shut down when faced with threats throughout the lifespan.2,3 As a result, children may feel threatened by or respond impulsively to situations where no real threat exists, such as seeing anger or hostility in a facial expression that is actually neutral, or they may remain excessively anxious long after a threat has passed.

#human development #childhood abuse #brain development

abouttodeletethiscrap-deactivat

They sit, towards the back of the restaurant Across from each other, barely speaking This was not a first date It shouldn’t even call itself a date I watched them as they order without speaking Must be regulars A marital date night Obligatory, like jury duty Their food arrived without a...

#poetry

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

#poetry

were-woolves

You’re here in the bar. you’re here, sitting beside him, on your 8th - no 9th - no - but you’re not. You’re pushed up against a tree and he’s inside of you. He’s inside of you, nails digging galaxies into your hips, you’re begging him to consume you like he always had, the way he used to when he said he loved you. He loved you, loved, not loves - maybe you misheard him. But it doesn’t matter, you’re here and he loves you - but you’re not. You’re there, beside him, and he doesn’t. He’s inside of you, yes, but not the way you wanted. Not biting your neck and breathing, breathing, he loves you. He said he loved you to the moon and back but you didn’t notice that the moon was the drink sitting in front of you, slammed down without second thought. He was burning through your lungs, and through your stomach. You’d throw him back up, again, and again, just like you always did.

8th Shot | d.g (via were-woolves)

#poetry

andthatlittleblackdress-deactiv

“I’m not like other girls, you know?” she tilts her head back and smiles strangely at me like she’s inviting me in on a little secret she’s been waiting to tell me “I’m different.”

When I ask her exactly what does she mean by that she shrugs rolling...

#poetry

chilaquilesverdesplease

It is both possible, and even necessary, to simultaneously enjoy a piece of media while also being critical of its more pernicious aspects.

Anita Sarkeesian

Best quote ever.

(via mv12)-

This is the woman who wants to take your video games away, don’t forget.

(via inurashii)

#quptes

e.e. cummings

may my heart always be open to little...

may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if it's sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly there's never been quite such a fool who could fail pulling all the sky over him with one smile

#e.e. cummings #poetry

e.e. cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day) and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea

#e.e. cummings #poetry

e.e. cummings

love is a place...

love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds

#e.e. cummings #poetry

drakontomalloi

Where there is no imagination, there is no horror.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (via drakontomalloi)

#quote

blurryfacedboy

The trauma said, “Don’t write this poem. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.” But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.” My bones said, “Write the poem.”

Andrea Gibson (via ideaorideal)

#andrea gibson #poetry

e.e. cummings

l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness

#e.e. cummings #poetry

e.e. cummings

The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople-- it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs. Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople? Catastrophe unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively ultravoluptuous superpalazzo,and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice they'd improbably call it dying-- you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing:which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now'and now is much to busy being a little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included. Life,for mostpeople,simply isn't. Take the socalled standardofliving. What do mostpeople mean by "living"? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science,in its finite but unbounded wisdom,has succeeded in selling their wives. If science could fail,a mountain's a mammal. Mostpeople's wives could spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omnipotence immediately and will accept no substitutes. -luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal. The plusorminus movie to end moving,the strictly scientific parlourgame of real unreality,the tyranny conceived in misconception and dedicated to the proposition that every man is a woman and any woman is a king,hasn't a wheel to stand on. What their synthetic not to mention transparent majesty, mrsandmr collective foetus,would improbably call a ghost is walking. He isn't a undream of anaesthetized impersons, or a cosmic comfortstation,or a transcedentally sterilized lookiesoundiefeelietastiesmellie. He is a healthily complex,a naturally homogenous,citizen of immorality. The now of his each pitying free imperfect gesture,his any birth of breathing,insults perfected inframortally milleniums of slavishness. He is a little more than everything,he is democracy;he is alive:he is ourselves. Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"-- nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening,innocent spontaneaous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are amoung the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted;brain over heart, surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow,mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence;never to rest and never to have;only to grow. Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question

#e.e. cummings #poetry #prose poetry

e. e. cummings

if you like my poems let them

if you like my poems let them walk in the evening,a little behind you then people will say "Along this road i saw a princess pass on her way to meet her lover(it was toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

#e.e. cummings #poetry

e.e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain

#e.e. cummings #poetry

shuddersome-deactivated20140424

cries about rp

tschyuss

i love yr gusto bird. i wish i had more of it some days, but i guess its hard on the heart.

Robert Frost

Acquianted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, A luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.

#robert frost #poetry

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