The mind has been studied for centuries. The concept of neurology, brain science, kind of resembles physics to me. In physics I'm pretty sure it started out with that guy (was it Hook?) who figured out there were cells in that piece of cork. Then they broke cells down to different levels, and found out there was a whole bunch more there. Then they broke it down to particles, and even more so down to atoms now. And now I think they're saying they found a way to break down atoms? Point of my story is the deeper they dig, the more they find. I think the same is true with the mind. Our imaginations are very powerful and lead ultimately to the best of inventions and the most heinous of crimes. I am fascinated by the mind. I have an undergraduate science degree in Psychology with a neuroscience background, and I am in a Masters program leading towards a Counseling degree. I love to know what makes people tick, and help people understand their own thoughts -and how to correct them, if needed- better.Exercise 1: Compose an interior drama from the perspective of one whose mental state is characterized by one of the following symptoms: paranoia, delusions of grandeur, phobias, OCD, SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder).
I was literally rubbing my hands together when I saw this list, does that make me an awful person? I'm going to write a super quick segment of what could potentially be a larger story someday. So this guy has severe paranoia and is on meds for it, and has a restraining order against his wife! Here's the story....
Comments:I recited to myself the mantra my therapist had given me during my previous appointment, as my knuckles blanched on the steering wheel. “Reason with yourself. Calm. Cool. Collected.”
I was on the way to the hospital to see my wife which was technically a violation of two orders. The first order was from my psychiatrist, stating that I should not operate heavy machinery while I was on the medication. However, I hadn’t been taking the medication so I suppose I wasn’t really violating that order. The second order I was determined to violate was the restraining order my wife placed against me.
On the way to the hospital I had stopped at the local grocery store to get a soda from the vending machine, and it wasn’t the caffeine from the Mountain Dew making me lose my patience with this frail looking dinosaur crossing the crosswalk. My knuckles audibly cracked their displeasure with the speed –or lack thereof- at which the elderly woman was crossing the parking lot. My ‘Calm. Cool. Collected.’ mantra did nothing for me. The old lady had managed to edge her cart just far enough out in the road that I couldn’t maneuver my 1993 Buick Skylark around her, and she stopped for a few seconds like that, slack-mouthed. Her open mouth showed a lower jaw grinding against air in a counter-clockwise direction, as she began to slowly, inch by inch, venture further along in the crosswalk. Shuffling her bedroom slippers across the yellow striped asphalt. Every few shuffles she would turn and look ghastly towards me. Each time she stopped my annoyance grew exponentially worse, and I became aware that my face was contorting.
It had taken her almost a full minute to get her cart almost past the hood of my car, when she stopped yet again to stare through my windshield at me.
The snap came, as I satisfyingly floored the accelerator. The metal shopping cart scraped, bounced, dinged, and gouged its way along the left side of the aged body of my Buick. There was an instantaneous explosion of kitty litter, eggs, prune juice, and milk. I gave the car some gas and it rolled over the new speed bump, as I turned on the windshield wipers to get rid of the terrible looking mess. My hands comfortably rested on the steering wheel and I relaxed back into the seat. Once I was back on the highway I turned on the radio, turned the volume down a little, and held in the seek button until I found some easy listening music.
The hospital was at most five miles from where I had gotten back onto the freeway, but in suburban Washington D.C. five miles could take fifty minutes. It seemed like longer today, and I had only been in bumper to bumper traffic for seconds before I began to tense up. The smooth elevator music the radio produced began to bug me, and I pressed the seek button once or twice before becoming totally unsatisfied with the radio, shutting it off. I wound down my window and stuck my head out of the window. The stop was being caused by road construction, this three lane stretch of road was funneling into two lanes. I was in the middle lane, and I watched with growing frustration as the hesitant teenage male in the new-looking Honda Civic in front of me kept letting cars enter our lane. I honked my horn to voice my displeasure, before turning the radio back on. The Village People were belting out the “Macho Man”, I honked my horn along with the chorus, which seemed to further cement the Honda in front of me.
Twelve or thirteen cars had been let in line by this teenage pimple-neck that was having a hard time telling the difference between the accelerator and the brake. I’d had enough, I laid on the horn and accelerated with 1994 Buick-velocity directly into the rear end of his new looking Honda Civic. Staring a hole through his rear view mirror, I caught view of his face, frantic with startled eyes. At first, he held down the brake, and my Buick slowly began to out muscle the brakes of his Honda. I could feel the stares of onlookers, including the construction worker standing near the ‘lane closed’ sign. Suddenly the Honda stopped resisting, and as the teenager swerved to the right, the prune-juice, milk, egg, and kitty litter covered hood of my Buick Skylark wedged underneath of his demolished bumper, lifting the car for a moment before I floored it around him and cut to the shoulder, cruising past the construction site.
Well, that was fun. Just a draft, didn't proofread much of it. In reality, you'd think cops would be called after Mr. Crazy just mowed down an elderly lady's cart of groceries (and the old lady too? perhaps), and his car would definitely be noticeable given the lack of 1994 Buick Skylarks on the road, and the prune juice, milk, egg, and kitty litter paint scheme on the hood. I can't imagine windshield wipers would do a fantastic job of cleaning that, either.I have a special place in my heart for those who have mental illness, though. That can go from depression to addictions to more severe (but equally tragic, in my opinion) illnesses. The thing about mental health problems is many people who suffer from them tend to internalize and blame themselves. Afterall, it's all in THEIR head, right? It's not so simple, unfortunately. The good thing is, there's help. (Doesn't that sound like a magic-pill commercial?) Go get counseling. I'm serious. A good counselor. Everyone needs a counselor, just someone you can lay it all out for. Counselors don't solve your problems for you, nor are we advice dispensers like Lucy the Psychotherapist from the Charlie Brown comic strips. First, we charge a hell of a lot more than a 5 cent piece, and second what we do is equip patients with the tools to work through their own problems, and provide unconditional support while we do that.
I've learned alot about the word "unconditional" since beginning a counseling program. I have been blessed, I truly have been. I haven't struggled like alot of my friends. I have had help when I needed it. I don't have to worry if I will have enough money for food next month. I have unconditional support and love from my parents, and for that I have to thank them. It's always been there, but I haven't been the best at realizing it. It wasn't until working with people who really, really lack that support and that love, that I realized what I have available to me.
So, now that I'm off of my soapbox, go and tell someone that loves you that you appreciate it. Hug your parents. Hug your friends. Don't hug me, unless I know you, and even then just briefly. Not much of a touchy-feely guy, really. I might punch you if you linger.
No comments:
Post a Comment