Tag: candid

Mellow dramatics

Hobble into a room with a cast on your leg, and everyone will eagerly await your tales of drunken rock-climbing. Hobble into a room because your mind is just too disoriented to process your senses, and no one will feel comfortable talking to you about your misfiring brain.

Not even you.

I’m not sure why this is, but while most people deem it acceptable to talk about and seek help for physical issues bothering them, there’s a huge stigma against bringing up problems of the mind. Perhaps, it’s because unlike obvious physical abnormalities, much of our craziness can be hidden from life’s casual observers; and people don’t see the need to talk about things that can be swept under the rug.

But screw social norms, you know I’m going to.

Can you imagine how scary it is to have your mind and eyes wake up, but not the rest of your body? When you feel awake, but paralysed as you lie there in the harsh realisation that the rest of you often functions independent of your mind. What if you’re prone to sleeping on your tummy, and you occasionally find your mind waking up, only to realise it can’t turn your head to prevent you from choking on your pillow because your body is still asleep?

Do you then shut your eyes real tight and hope that it’s just a nightmare? Can you even tell the difference? What if your memory is just a blur and you can’t always clearly tell if something you’re recalling is an event you really experienced, a dream you had, or just something you were thinking about? When desperately devoid of feeling, you concoct something and convince yourself it’s real.

And if you can’t tell the difference, is there any?

It’s ironic that the authenticity of your experiences is really a moot concern, as failing memory is one of the first signs of a faulty brain, aside from spotty hallucinations and spooky convulsions, of course. If you can’t even remember clearly over a few weeks into the past, why would you care if what you’re recollecting is real?

Alas, another thing that’s easily affected is speech patterns. Slurred, incoherent ramblings soon replace any expressive flair you might have possessed—further evidencing your dulling senses and intellect to the world. And worse, reducing the likelihood you’re going to coherently talk about what you’re going through with anyone.

High as a kite

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Against the advice of most people, including my aghast parents, I resorted to Plan B. And you know what? It’s been great! These past few days have witnessed a substantial change in my outlook, and I’ve actually started to do things again. Like a couple of days ago, a friend and I drove out to a national park at the outskirts of the city and spent most of our morn hiking and talking. When was the last time you heard me do something like that? Never.

I’m not certain if the chemicals have anything to do with it, or it’s some sort of placebo effect, but I’m too busy being glad to care.

Of course, things have not been all rosy. There have been some side-effects, like the occasional twitch of the odd muscle (the kinds you get after marathon video-gaming sessions) and mental restlessness that makes it a little harder for me to go to sleep at night. Nevertheless, I feel they’re worth it right now, and these are relatively minor things I can easily contend with for what I feel I’m receiving in return.

What I guess I am saying is: It’s OK if you can’t calm down and focus, even enough to write a decent journal entry, when your mind is in fact racing with heartening thoughts—such as where you want to travel to and what genuinely needy groups you want to aid.

Clue in: Since everyone around feels entitled to harangue me about my life choices, all I have to say is this: People who don’t, won’t or can’t do anything to help my circumstance have little say in the matter.

The non-story so far

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As if it even needs to be stated, I’m an extremely negative person. Sitting outside the doctor’s office last afternoon waiting for my test results, I was envisioning one horrible scenario after the next—complete with how I intended on breaking the news in this journal. After all, so much of my blood had been taken and subjected to such broad scrutiny, surely something horrible would crop up. And when it did, I’d be ready with my truly twisted take on things for the next day’s story.

But nothing did.

As she was reading out the charts and explaining to me what was going on, every one of my numbers—each characterising one of 20–25 different tests—landed smack in the middle of acceptable ranges for humans. It’s as if someone took an average of the highs and lows for each of these parameters and reported them as my score.

Fucking great.

I’m assuming I ought to be pleased by this outcome, but I’m not. Now I can’t even blame my state on… failing kidneys or something as dire. I guess it’s time to resort to Plan B: intense, mind-altering chemicals.

Of crayons and sniffles

I’m writing this with Crayola sleeping peacefully on top of me.

I call her Crayola you see, for I love how we behave like a bunch of kids given a piece of paper and some crayons. Me sitting up close behind her on the floor, barely able to take my focus off her as we draw; we just sit and draw for hours and hours. She’s so talented and expressive, I’m perpetually mesmerised; as my fingertips can’t help but trace those creative, long hands of hers. Before long, the drawing we were creating takes a back seat—the drawing with my broad, abstract strokes with her lush detail making it come so alive.

And now she’s asleep. So peacefully, raising and lowering slightly as I breathe. Her slender arms still wrapped loosely around me. Her hair so elegant even as it’s dishevelled. One look at her lazed form sway softly over me, and every delicious event since I first sat down behind her to draw flashes before my eyes.

She’s so beautiful you see, I’ve been unable to go to sleep—I’ve just been lost staring at her soft form. Watching her breathe, hearing her murmur and whimper so cutely from time to time, the soft vibrations of her body—oh goodness, she’s delicious—I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s taken so much out of me to part my palms from her delicate, soft back to grab this letter-pad. It’s so dark, and I can see very little, but my dear Crayola I see so clearly. She doesn’t know how much she has me mesmerised. Oh, her nose is totally blocked, she’s snorting and grunting slightly, trying to ease her breaths. And I’m whispering softly and reassuringly in her ear each time she mumbles in her sleep, perturbed. I can’t bear to see her perturbed, I want her forever peaceful and protected in my arms; with me still deep inside her.

Oh, I can’t take it anymore. I have to leave—to kiss her forehead, those tired, closed eyelids and that cute, blocked nose.