Pathology

This is a genre of writing, relatively new to our era, in which you write about the experience of having an illness. It's interesting because until now I never really thought of the impersonalization of hospital settings to be a problem. I've experienced an ER a couple times and while there is always something to complain about, I found everything to be pleasantly routine. They ask the questions, get to the problem here and decide what to do about it. Though my goal is to usually get help and get home as soon as possible. Other people though don't have the luxury to just go home and forget. Some people are living with these problems for the rest of their life and so have to work with medicals professionals regularly. I can imagine after extended stay it can be frustrating when someone helps you pee every so often but never asks you how you're dealing with everything. We are not robots programmed to accept when our health fails us. It causes us mental pain, and makes living in the real world difficult. No one wants to talk about tragedies. No one wants to be reminded about death. But ill people have it thrown at them daily. It's not a choice for them. That's why writing is a beautiful thing, you are given a blank slate to put down your experience as you've only experienced it. Writing takes you on a journey through understanding and coping that it vital to maintaining a grip on the world. This can all be translated to mental health as well. I think that's how many of us found writing in the first place. It became a place to talk and work things about. Tell secrets and stories no one else would understand. Writing has helped me heal in tremendous ways, I honestly don't know where I'd be without it.

Healing and da Brain

It has been a long time since I thought about the brain in it's most scientific form. Typically I think of it as this thing in my head that makes me feel all sorts of things I'd rather ignore from time to time. I used to know all the parts of the brain, I even had them memorized, my hippocampus put into good use. Time passed and college stuffed my mind full over other useful/less knowledge.
I find it interesting, while not surprising, that 'intellectual enterprises have sovereignty over emotions.' It's not uncommon for people to be embarrassed or feel shame about their feelings. Emotions are a complicated thing, and they seem to also be working on a bias and not logic. "Emotions aren't logical", this is something people have said, and by doing so they undermine how they feel. Of course emotions have logic and reason! You are sad when someone hurts you, mad when they disrespect you, happy when they make you laugh, sounds like logical responses to me. Sometimes I feel like people spend too much time worrying that what they feel is invalid, which creates problems of self-worth, and all of this just takes away from the healing process we are all trying to undergo.
I also find it really interesting that psychologists are able to infer exactly how each part of the brain lends itself to the healing process. And a lot of it seems to do with memory and through what lends we remember things. When you're a infant/child your hippocampus isn't fully formed so the amygdala-thalamus is responsible for memory, which is mainly emotional responsive. Which is exactly how babies are. They cry easily because they don't understand any better. An emotional response is almost entirely what they are capable of.
"If we did not believe in learning and remembering, we could not believe in healing". This makes me infer that a large part of the healing process is taking past and potentially traumatic events and learning how to remember them, like finding a helpful way of thinking about them. Of course emotion goes along with this because it is what often causes memories to stand out. If you can't understand the emotion behind it then you can never hope to learn how to heal it. This is why making sure you understand your emotions, whatever it is you're feeling, are entirely valid.

That Sunday Night

    It was a Sunday night in March, the first one perhaps. We didn't have to go to Grandma's so my sister and I got in our pjs early. I always looked forward to Sunday night because Extreme Home Makeover was on. I was thirteen and I though someday I was going to be an architect... and marry Ty Pennington. 

    We were in the basement getting ready to watch when our parents came downstairs. I felt the tension shift immediately. Even thinking about it now the weight of my heart feel apparent in my chest. It's all my mother can do to not start crying before she sits down. 

     I feel it coming. I hadn't any day or moment prior but now I feel exactly what it going to happen tonight. Yet I brace myself for different words anyway.

     My dad is the one to deliver the news. He tells us this doesn't change anything, and it isn't our fault, and they still love each other. But it was time for them to separate.

     Mom sobs through everything. I'm not sure my face holds any emotion at all. My little sister begins to cry too. I always hate that.  I hate when people make her cry. In non life changing situations, she is always the stoic one or even laughing at the sad part in movies. On movie night it wasn't uncommon for her and Dad to watch Lord of the Rings together while me and Mom watch Ever After for the hundredth time and still tear up. 

     At some point I get up from the couch, dropping my blanket, and avoiding eye contact. I go up the the stairs into the kitchen, down the hall, and up the next flight of stairs. At the top I lay down in the hallway where I finally begin to cry. I worry someone will come after me but no one does. When Popop died I ran to my room and hugged Patty the stuffed pig until I couldn't cry anymore. That was four years ago and it didn't feel like Patty could help this time. 

     After I collected myself I went back downstairs. No one else was crying either. Dad said he had something he wanted to show us. He had excitement in his voice and it cut through my like a blade. He went to the desktop computer and pull up a website. This is the house I'll be getting, I put an offer on it just the other day. You two will share a room but it has a basement and a loft, and a deck! 

     I glance over his shoulder and go back to sit on the couch. He pulls my sister into his lap. I'm frustrated that he thinks this will help in anyway and upset that it's already gone so far as to buy another house. This isn't what I wanted to know, that everything about this situation is so far out of my hands. I don't want another house or another room. All I want is for things to go back to how they were just an hour ago. I want to stop time from moving forward and changing everything as it goes. I want to scream at my parents that love means you stay together even if it's hard, so don't say you still love each other. Don't say you've tried to work it out, because if you had I might have seen this coming, even just a little bit. 

My Voices

The voice I write with and the voice I speak with are very separate entities. As a child I was never afraid to speak. My mother says that I spoke clearly from the moment I began with my first word, ‘uh oh’(Not really a word, but it's all I've been given). I can sense her pride (in herself) when she tells me how well I spoke at a young age. She claims it was because she refused to use ‘baby talk’ when speaking to me. I have to say I appreciate the hell out of that. Growing up I never felt like I was being talked down to, not in tone at least. 

I was an overly curious child, listening in on every adult conversation I could, and always voiced my opinion and thoughts, never afraid of being wrong, rude, or out of place. Which I often was. This is the little girl who asked the Reverend if she could get him a beer when he came over to discuss my baby sister's baptism. And told her mother she was going to 'kick her ass' for a reason no one can remember. Sure it was verbatim of the talk I would hear at Grandmas, but I still had the guts to say it, and so it was the day I learned what dish soap tastes like. 

It wasn't just the words I said, but also the volume that got me into trouble. I'd been told a million times to use my indoor voice, and that day at lunch in first grade was no different. I was the line leader that day, it was also my birthday and a large yellow crown of paper sat on my head. I was in a great mood and unfortunately the lunch ladies never were. I chatted with David, the poor sap who sat across from me. Once Ms. M came over to hush us, and then twice when my frantic energy hadn't simmered. At this point in lunch she had already given the entire cafeteria a yellow card, one color away from silence for the rest of the time there. The third time she came over was the last, I put up a fight, pointing to what I though was a clear sign of exemption from punishment on my head. But no, me and my loud mouth were dragged to the principal's office, and I tucked my crown underneath the office chair, embarrassment reddening my cheeks.

As an adult I still speak unwarrantedly, a rebuttal always waiting on my lips. My mother still encourages me to 'just take the LSTAT's for fun!!' convinced my one true calling is to be a lawyer. I loathe the idea. So I have a quick wit, sue me. Doesn't mean I'll make it in a court room with stuffy men and a gavel banging judge. If anything I'd be the judge, making the final decisions and speaking the least (Don't tell my mother this is highly hypothetical). I'm much to blunt and sarcastic and I've been told I speak in a monotone, especially when disinterested or annoyed. I honestly hate my voice. I want to die when I hear it recorded and I try not to think about the fact that everyone I know has to listen to it. 

The voice I do like it my writing voice. It needs tweaking and sometimes I can't always get my words to flow, but it's where I'm comfortable. I can't trip over my words and I have a delete button when I misspeak. There's so much pressure in speaking because once it's said you can't take it back. Writing is different. Secret are kept between you and the ink, the paper is delighted to receive your words and doesn't judge. Somewhere along the line I lost confidence in my speaking voice. I no longer trust the things it comes up with to say, over-excitement, anxiety, drinking, causes the words to spill and never stop spilling. I try to catch them with paper and ink, reassemble them into poetry and prose, bind them in notebooks; this is my craft and no one can tell me to hush here.