Abuse the Brain, Hobble the Mind

photo by maytevidri OUT GR & MDZ.

My mind is hobbled. Why must I jam pointed objects into my brain all of the time? Why do I throw old blankets over it and kick it around? Why douse it in alcohol, prescription drugs, late-night TV, and then set it on fire?

My mind is my adversary. It wields too much power over me, too easily breaks me into submission. I hate the shadow it casts over every sunny spot in which I pause to stand awhile. It bickers constantly with me and won’t listen to reason, and I believe that if I dull it, life will be easier. Easier to live, yes, because it was so incapacitating to have these obsessions, these glaringly bright epiphanies shooting off like firecrackers, that…okay, just shut up now. Let’s not get into all that. Best not entertain these thoughts because then they will become encouraged and verified, they will gain confidence and think they can just butt in any old time they want when all I really want is a little peace and quiet.

So I manage to dampen it, tamp it down. Drink does not help really, let’s be honest. While it gives me a vacation from my mind, it also opens floodgates of feelings, something I’m told are “emotions,” and now I have to deal with a whole new sensation. This liberation is too hard to shake off when the drunkenness wears off.

So with the abuses of the brain -- a smidgeon of serotonin uptake inhibitors here, a dose of neurotransmitter suppressors to the limbic system there -- I end up with a brain that barely limps along, and when I want to put my full weight on it, it can’t hold up. Today is one of those days. I awake from a ten hour sleep and find that it is impossible to get out of bed.

I know what you’re thinking, but keep your clinician to yourself; I’m not particularly sad. It is much more physical than that. It has less to do with the mind and more to do with the brain, like I said, before, that time with the metaphor, that thingy...well you get the picture. It don’t work.

I call in sick to work, barely make it out of the bed to the sofa. The sun has spilled light all over the living room floor. Have to clean that up later, but for now, I want to watch out the window for a while. Two boys are running across the park with red plastic sleds in hand, heading for the snow covered hill. Their names? Let’s see; Dan Blom and Edward Jowicke. They skipped school and run with so much energy for the top of the hill. They know when they slide down and get to the bottom, they’ll get detention, but who cares? It’s worth it. Look at them go, bouncing over bumps, the scrape of packed snow speeding under them, their laughter traveling across the snow even while they slide down to their demise, but it was fun for a while. So what if they get locked away in a detention room? As soon as the principal turns her back, they will make another escape.