Phrenectomy

It’s so rare that I experience “writer’s block”. I can’t even remember a time when I experienced such tragedy. I think sometimes I come close, I can only write so many streams of consciousness before I get annoyed with myself. Today, I reached out to my Aunt Lindy for ideas, and she asked me if I believed in miracles. I do. I very much believe in miracles. I believe that I myself am the most miraculous entity that I have encountered. 

Now, you have to understand, I have always had a lingering sense of “I don’t belong here”. Whether it be small scale, getting on the wrong train, or walking into the wrong room first day of classes, or larger conundrums, such as questioning the very rules I grew up abiding by, or the dreaded “I shouldn’t even be alive” thoughts that swarm my brain when I have to do something I vehemently don’t want to do– I have always felt this way. “I’m not even supposed to be here today!” I shout in my best Dante Hicks voice. But I am here, and that in itself is nothing short of a miracle. 

Recently, I’ve been mulling over the idea that I am too comfortable holed up in my padded cell of an apartment. I sit here all day, ruminating, writing, reading, doing anything I damn well please. My little cat (the real miracle here) sits with me the whole time, snoring and purring and snoring some more. I have snacks, smokes, weed, coffee, everything I could ever need. I watch cartoons mainly. Old Scooby Doo, Regular Show, Adventure Time, and my personal favorite, albeit a little newer, Clarence. Clarence is a show that, if I am standing at a ledge contemplating the big ol’ philosophical question of suicide, it will pull me back. That show is so funny, and while equally as wholesome, it really shows diversity in a light that I find a lot of kids’ cartoons these days put too much emphasis on, but in a way that is candid and natural. I listen to music, especially while I’m writing or making a collage. I listen to Modest Mouse and Pile a lot of the time, though Jeff Buckley and Tom Waits are creeping into my steady supply of depression-fueled music. My best friend drags me out of the safety of my pig sty every once in a while for coffee, and it is usually the highlight of my day. I am comfortable, no, downright cozy. Is this a bad thing?

I think of all the luxuries I am allowed in life, and while it’s not much, I owe most of my sanity to things like video games, movies, and art. I owe my sanity to coffee, I owe it to weed, I owe it to cigarettes, and the occasional spliff or a cold beer. My substances keep my blood flowing, I’m sure of it. But hey, I’m not doing hard drugs, and I have a nice warm bed with a sweet little cat to return to at the end of every day. I’m doing pretty well. But back to my initial question, is this a bad thing? With questions like this, I must remind myself that I am in an abusive relationship with my own moral compass. My brain is a moral perfectionist; however, there are limitations to almost every action, and my actions don’t always align perfectly with what my brain says will be my ultimate unravelling should I not abide by said compass. I leave cigarette butts on the ground outside every once in a while. Sometimes I don’t bring my neighbor’s packages to her door out of sheer laziness. I dance around my top floor apartment at 4 AM because I’m just feeling a little extra pep this morning. I smoke weed inside (windows open) and then immediately open the door to leave, allowing a little smoke to waft into the hallway. I watch old horror movies with the volume up a little too loud so the whole floor can hear Marion Crane wail in terror. A moral perfectionist in my head, but by no means even a moral optimist in the wild. Despite all of these horrid qualities I find detestable in myself, I deserve to be comfortable. But how comfortable? How much is too much? Another reminder to myself comes to mind. My suffering benefits no one; it doesn’t make me a better person, nor does it help anyone else out for that matter. All my loved ones want is for me to be happy. Shouldn’t that be incentive enough? If August wants me to be happy, who am I to deny the guy the pleasure of seeing a loved one’s smile? 

Right, back to miracles. Despite this cushiony life I live, inside me lies an ocean of tears constantly welling up and receding like the tides. But an ocean is still an ocean. I have a near constant pain baseline of 3/10 on a good day, and the whole schizophrenia thing doesn’t allow for optimal working conditions. To be blunt, I can’t hold a job. It’s a hard truth I’ve learned to accept, but the fact of the matter is that if I don’t burn out physically it will be mentally and it happens extremely quick, almost without warning. School, on the other hand, is more manageable. I take 2 classes a semester in order to maintain mental homeostasis, both on the same day so I’m only on campus 2 days a week to minimize the strain physically as well. My moms there. I don’t have any friends but I learn about people by watching them, college students are very routine oriented sometimes. 

That’s miracle one; that I can go to school. I love learning, and I love the structure that school provides me. I have obligations, but not too many, and most can be handled in my own time. Learning makes my brain feel invigorated and like it’s functioning at full capacity. And when it’s that time of the semester, I can feel burnout approaching. I can navigate it well for the most part due to the heads-up. Lots of rest, even when I don’t feel like I need it. Try not to drain my social battery, because when my brain is a shriveled up little raisin, and my body is… well, my body, I’m gonna need that kind of energy the most. An equal balance of Leisure Enrichment and Academic Enrichment. Eyes on the prize (a couple of months to do absolutely nothing). It tends to always work out, except that time during The Great Adderall Shortage of Spring 2023 when I ran out during finals. I failed one class, got a D in the other, and was placed on academic probation. 

These days, I actually get up out of bed in the morning. Sometimes I even brush my teeth. I take my medications every single day, I drink coffee, and I exist in the world. Maybe not actually out in the physical world, but I do things that, for the most part, make me happy. I engage in hobbies, I talk to my friends, I take naps. At least 4 times a week, I select 3 lucky loved ones to receive a text reminding them I love them. I thank my objects when I use them, because you never know when being kind to inanimate objects will pay off. Surely someday I will be allowed into the pearly gates of heaven for thanking my Keurig every time I use it. All of this is fueled by one thing: spite. Miracle two is just sugar-coated spite. I will be the first to admit that I am an angry person. Rightfully so in the majority of cases, but dealing with anger healthily is not my strong suit. I try really hard, but eventually I end up bottling it up, too embarrassed by the assumption that at least 75% of people think I’m too sensitive, or too loud, or too much in general. But then I remember I don’t actually give a shit what other people think. A caged bird thinks flying is an illness, yadda yadda. I’d rather be me than spend time actually caring about what narratives people concoct in their brains, because that’s extremely embarrassing. Not to shame anyone, but I get an extreme case of the ick when I can tell someone cares what others think. Sure, we all get those thoughts. But to actually entertain them and put energy into them? Yuck. I’ll pass.

Miracle 3 is simple. In brief, because I’d rather not delve into specifics, it is statistically a miracle that I am alive. For various reasons, no single reason outweighing the other. Just a series of unfortunate yet still fortunate events because I lived bitch!!

I can’t believe I sat down and churned this out in one sitting. If you read all this way, then thank you for bearing witness to todays miracle, and for being part of it. Much love.