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The One Where I Write a Letter to My Own Brain and Insist It Isn't Weird

Writing seems like the only answer. Answer to what exactly I am unsure of, but this urge to just write tells me that I'm heading in the right direction. So I'll just keep writing and hope I end up where I'm meant to be.

Things have been a bit off kilter recently. My mind hasn't been as sharp as I'd like it to be. I've had less control about where it wanders and to what, or to whom, it allows prime attention. It's grown preoccupied with what if's, and if only's and, charmingly, convincing me I shall live miserably and alone. Somewhere along the line, something has changed and my brain has decided that it's perfectly acceptable for it to have its own continuous narrative without any input from me. Well, "Brain", you insubordinate fuckwit, I can assure you that it is not.

(Is it weird that I've anthropomorphized my brain into a separate being entirely out to get me? Oh without a doubt, but work with me here, it's how I process.)

Now I'm not unfamiliar with this feeling. I've danced this game before. It was a long dance, took almost two seasons of Strictly to end, but it did end. Ended up with me being a badass, almost/sorta/mostly mentally strong person, if I recall correctly. Which I do because, I've just told you, mentally amazing. So, you can bet your arse that I'm pretty attuned to what's going on here. I see you sneaking in and I'm telling you, I'm not having it. I'm not having you filling my head with doubts, or telling me that I'm not worth it, or that I am unlovable and about to completely mess up my career before it's even began. OH, and I am most certainly not letting you convince me that I have some incurable and deadly disease.  I eat kale, for Christ's sake, I'll probably never, ever die.  

What I don't quite understand is how you've managed to sneak this far at all. I'm normally on the ball, laid in waiting, and other mixed idioms that illustrate my point. I can normally smoke you out with a good book, or a sweat at the gym or a bag of Doritos consumed in front of a Peep Show marathon. Usually, you'd be gone by now. I can't figure out how you got in, though I have my theories, of course. It was the travel, wasn't it? Travel, sold to us as the answer to all life's problems, of course, I wouldn't expect you there. Caught off territory, in a place I'm expecting to bring only cultural enlightenment and joy. You snuck up when I was marveling at Venetian canals and delivered the ultimate sucker punch. You clever little shite, you. But now I'm home? Well, the unemployment is prime opportunity. Thoughts have a lot of time to fester when one's not preoccupied with work. You've had time to sneak them in unnoticed and watch in glee as they spiral into crises. 

But that's just the means of entry. I must find the motive. Why have you been so insistent on stockpiling my mind with intrusive thoughts? Change. It's the change, isn't it? You, silly weak little Brain, have always been disastrously reactive to change. I should have known it from the start. So, predictable, so mundane.  Honestly, Brain, you need to calm the fuck down, mate. This isn't anywhere near a crisis, so it'd be best not to embarrass yourself by kicking off. There's been a lot of change, and there's going to be more. Jobs left behind, money unsure. New pastors, new universities, new courses, new knowledge. Relationships dead and distant memories, relationships stillborn before they even develop, relationships hopeful with eyes meeting at the bar. The security of friendship groups drifting, disintegrating, no more answers on the group chat. The possibility of new friendship and cocktails, study groups, new phone numbers. And I don't mean to push you over the edge Brain, but you even have new hair. Life's all over the shop right now. 

Thing's are going to change. It's necessary that they change. I can't let your fear of it drag me under again because last time, oh god last time, well that was just an absolute disaster wasn't it? Clearly, you shouldn't be in charge of anything. It's time for you to let me take control of my own narrative. So if you wouldn't mind, brain, do piss off. I've got shit to do.

1 comment

  1. You're such a great writer + I loved this post!! enjoy Grad school :)