The occasional horrific bouts of soul-crushing depression and anxiety notwithstanding, for the most part, I have come to terms with, and have learned to love, my fucked up brain. It took a long time to get it roadtrip ready, and I need to take it in for repairs regularly — but it’s like that ‘72 Cuda you restored from the rusted frame on up.
And after all that work, nobody drives this baby but me.
Make no mistake, before I did all the work, I was driving a real death-trap, complete with engine that exploded on impact. But now that I’ve built myself a new ride (over the past ten years or so), it also is the most entertaining place to be that I know. I don’t need books or movies or people on the best days — I just let my brain have free reign, and I just enjoy the ride (ok, I’m done with the car analogy). I entertain myself with internal debates — each separate part picking a side (this can also be the most irritating thing in the world, because my brain wants to debate EVERYthing). I write little stories and poems and essays — some of which make it on to my blogs. I have entire movie reels of personal history to revisit, should I want. I let myself be as esoteric or vulgar as the internal moment warrants. No judgement or shame leaking in from the outside world. I’m just me — half misanthrope, half eager observer and lover of all things that entail human behaviour, at times full of frightful impulses, and painful memories — but also ultimately just quietly enthralled with the entire business of being alive.
This is all super useful when my chronic illness rears its ugly, uninvited head; as so much of my time is spent in bed, in pain, desperately in need of some distraction. I’ll tell you right now, I’d take mental illness over chronic physical illness, any day of the week. At least having Brain Cooties leaves you with some level of control, once you’ve figured out meds and treatment and lifestyle that works for your particular brand of Crazy.
Because being in mental pain all the time is exhausting. Just like being stressed out all the time is exhausting. You can’t do any of the things you need to do in order to function properly if you’re under unnecessary strain. And it’s up to US to regulate that shit, because nobody else can do it for you.
If I start to meander too far down a painful path in my brain, I can usually redirect it, show it a nicer bit of geography — a skill I’ve developed over the years. With approximately 456,000,000 different places to visit in my head, this isn’t so very difficult. Sometimes, it takes medication to do this, and that’s fine.
Even though my brain can screw with me when it goes haywire, I’ve long since learned to separate what’s real, and what’s just a momentary and disconcerting glitch in the Matrix. I know when it’s having a bad day, and know not to let the random and sometimes wildly inappropriate thoughts take over. Serotonin and dopamine are two funny little fraternal bastards; they can plummet you into a dark place for no good reason aside from it being Thursday, then by Friday you are back to your usual self, singing Tom Jones songs while prepping the borscht. It’s best to get that shit as regulated as possible — tweak it until you’re at a good baseline. That’s why God invented therapy, psychiatrists, and little bottles of prescribed pills. When your brain is at the proper status-quo (or as close an approximation thereof you can reasonably get), and starts behaving the way it should, you learn to trust it more.
I trust my brain these days — even when it’s a little off. I know the warning signs of irrational or delusional thinking, and take my risperdone when it happens.
I’ve taken my brain into my own hands, you might say.
The best part about owning your Brain Cooties and taking steps to keep the ol’ noggin happy, is the world becomes a much more navigable place — especially in terms of how you relate not only to your world and yourself in it, it helps deal with the outside world and the humans in it much more appropriately, functionally — logically. It’s not as easy to be gaslighted or fucked with or lied to when you’re in full possession of your own shit.
And when we are in possession of our OWN shit, it behooves us to steer clear of people who are still figuring theirs out — or possibly even actively cultivating their own bad cooties by doing drugs, drinking to excess, treating the people around them like shit, and otherwise engaging in shitty, irresponsible behaviors we know aren’t good for them — or us. We need to protect our brains from the chaos of others who are perhaps not as in control, are disingenuous, or even if something just seems off. You are not here to take care of someone else’s chaos.
Let me say that again, louder for those of you hiding in the back: YOU ARE NOT HERE TO TAKE CARE OF SOMEONE ELSE’S CHAOS.
I think a lot of us who haveth the Brain Cooties tend to think we owe our energy, attention, and time to other people who are like us — at least in the wonky brainmeats department. We don’t want to reject other people who are like us in that respect, because WE wouldn’t want to be rejected — especially not because of the Brain Cooties.
But here’s the thing: You’ve heard people say it — “You are not your diagnosis”. And we all love that, right? Because it’s fucking true. We have the diagnosis, but that’s just part of the ingredients. Sure, it can be a pretty big part of the braincake batter, but if we start defining ourselves solely on that alone, we deny responsibility for being autonomous creatures with more than just ganglia and goo holding us together up there. We have choices. And distinct personalities. And agency. If we didn’t, every single person diagnosed with Schizophrenia or Major Depression or Bipolar Disease (pick a brain cootie) would be exactly the same — as indistinguishable from each other as grains of sand. Or Barbie and Ken dolls.
Now that’s an idea for a toy…
So, if it’s true we aren’t our Cooties, then that applies to any other Cootie People we choose to spend our time with. And if someone isn’t playing straight with you, I don’t care how sick in the head they are — that’s on them. And shouldn’t be your problem. I am close to plenty of people with malfunctioning brains, and none of them are a chore to hang with. That’s because I choose cool crazies as friends. Ones who see the fun and joy and magic amidst the chaos. I surround myself with people who make me feel good, and MORE sane, not less. This is called being responsible for your own mental health.
You have your own lane to drive in, and there’s no room on it for a drunk driver with a Prius.
If we want to love our brains, we need to protect them from anything that might tip us off balance, upset our hard-earned equilibrium, and send us shooting off into Crazy Space. Or even just Increasingly Annoying Space. Because we just don’t have the inner resources to do that shit. Nobody does, really, but especially us.
The thing is, you know if something is off in your world — because while our brains are sometimes a bit screwy, our guts are rarely wrong. And when you see it? You have to call it. Don’t be afraid. Even if you sense the truth is not what you want to hear — believe me, you NEED to hear it. And if you don’t get any answer? Well. That’s an answer in itself.
If we are to love our fucked up little brainmeats the way we must in order to survive — and totally awesomely thrive — in this place, we must keep the wolves from the door. The roaches out of the bag of rice.
The sugar out of the gas tank.
Don’t think because you have a broken brain that you have to accept crazy from others. We fight the crazy in ourselves hard enough. Getting to a good place takes work — and help. If it’s not working or helping? Then it belongs where all the dead goldfish go.
The bottom of Lake Michigan.
Vrrrrooom.
Bare Bones Blonde 
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