Wandering Through the Brain

The brain.  My brain.  Usually a brain is all gruesome coils and pumping nerves and zipping synapses.  Not mine.  My brain is a twisted mess of detours and road blocks and explosions.  It is a difficult thing to understand, the brain, and yet the mind if often the most simplest of books to read, with the deepest meanings of all. 

For most of my life I prided myself on my creativity.  I could always focus a jumble of thoughts into one perfect and absolute truth.  I could create success from failure.  Humor from anger.  Focus from confusion.  As Dr. Seuss would say, I “looked at life through the wrong end of the telescope.” But somewhere my mind lost that skill- just as my brain lost its functionality.  It was as though I no longer understood any of my surroundings.  Like I could no longer control my own thoughts and emotions and movements.  For the past ten years I have only felt one thing: trapped.  Trapped in a broken brain with a mind that wanders aimlessly around, forgetting how to hold on to any individual purpose.  Recently, I have been noticing that my wandering mind has now become more lost in its trapped self than before.  I start one project and am on to another ten minutes later with no recollection of the first task.  I cannot grasp from the depths of my broken memory, names and numbers and facts that were once only laying dormant at the tip of my tongue.  I don’t know how it has happened.  I don’t know why those dormant facts have simply disappeared.  Thus, a new feeling is slowly creeping through the detours in my cerebrum: terror.  Not just fear, terror.  Real, deep, crippling terror.  I have managed to get through life with a shattered and disconnected brain, but a shattered and disconnected mind is not something I am yet prepared for.


One thought on “Wandering Through the Brain

  1. It is a creeping, crawling thing. A strange spidery issue. It’s through my cerebrum and it reminds me of Spiderman. The way his web used to stick to things but then stretch as far as he needed it to. But also the way it rapped around intruders, making them immobile and hopeless… simply inescapable. This creeping crawling thing is like that. It can stretch and hide and fade but it is always there. Like a spider, it makes me nervous. I know it is wrong. Every inch of my memory and experience knows it is wrong. I have seen it before. Looked past it before. But the webbing is still there: still inescapable. In the lowest depths of my trapped being, behind the desperate longing to escape, there is a constant need that can never be silenced. It is no longer a mask like Spiderman’s. Not like the other times with those more suitable lions and tigers and bears. No, this cursed spider is creeping and crawling all through the web. Spinning and trapping and stretching. But smiling, always smiling. Poison, scrawled across everything. The poison seeping through my every pore and vein and artery and clogging my heart… clouding my mind. Part of me wants to leave it there. Etched into my body and left to scar over. But it just won’t heal. This poison is different, it stays there, like a bad trip. It changes me. In another web it would be fine, great even to let the poison seep in. Well, not great obviously but better. Better than this crippling torment I feel every day. The creeping crawling thing is, unfortunately, exactly what I know it to be. I’ve never felt it like this before. Never with such strength and force. Maybe I let it. Maybe the poison is indeed a drug. One that I voluntarily take as the webbing gets thicker and the chance of escape all but disappears. I can borrow Spiderman’s mask for awhile. But in the end I need to cut my way out of my sticky trap… or let the poison take me. Become the person that 200 years ago I could have happily been. Become the poisonous spidery, old, scarred thing that know I am. I would still be the teacher. Without the lions and tigers and bears constantly circling, I would still be the teacher. I would educate and guide and coddle in a way a spider never could. The poison would transform me, into an improvement of myself. But I am not that, I am this. I am the one that straightens ties, makes beds, claps at terrible speeches. I am the one that is friends with George Washington, conjugates verbs, bruises knees. I am the one that raises children when others are incapable or unwilling. I cut through the webs and bury them in my tangled detours. All for now. I do what I can and SHOULD and remember my road blocks and keep everything perfect. I have raised myself to live and work for these children and shape them into the adults that I wish I could be. But spiders always seem to survive. When they don’t, the rain comes.

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