One of the many problems with my brain damage is that it didn’t damage my brain enough….
by Pseud O'Nym
I hate feeling like this, but I can’t help it. It isn’t so much that I want more brain damage, but rather that if I was going to have any at all, that some of it could have affected my cognitive function. At least more than it has. Bear with me here.
In an earlier post I wrote that,
One of the many thorny issues I’ve wrestled with over the years has been the question of whether it is better to be stupid than clever.
In essence I suggested that intelligence was more of a curse than anything, precisely because it gives ones imagination a greater range of options. Rich in detail, bleak in outlook and worryingly addictive, they present one with a plausibly realistic set of scenarios, realistic precisely because one is intelligent and therefore see’s them as such. You may, of course, disagree, and that’s fine. But it’s the way I see it and therefore it’s true for me.
This thinking was at the forefront of my mind during my recent sojourn to Dorset. To call it a holiday would be a misnomer, because as Crowded House had it ‘everywhere you go / you always take the weather with you’, which both literally and figuratively wasn’t great. Whoever said that travel broadens the mind clearly never had depression. Because, if it is true that money does indeed buy you a better class of misery, then it is equally true that depression shrouds any beautiful vista with a gloomy outlook. For that reason, it wasn’t so much a holiday as a helliday, because there was no respite from my thoughts, and therefore it gave my mind ample and ingenious ways to torment me.
And knowing that is in itself another torment.
Being aware that there was a strong likelihood of me not be a happy choppy and not wishing to rely on my memory, I took the precaution of keeping a diary of sorts on my computer – some lowlights of which I’ll refer to – to act as an accurate guide to my mood as it was. (Oh and by the way, anything in italics was written by me today)
fri morn spent contemplating continued utility of being – doing a c b a
(Cost benefit analysis) on my existence –things are only going to get worse, socially, economically and practically – the way things are headed – (If one looks with a rational and dispassionate air at the ways in which society has changed and become even more harsh, especially now under the guise of austerity the weakest are paying the price of others folly, can one really think that future is going to get anything other than progressively worse?) – I ponder this looking out on an idyllic vista surrounded by bees doing their noisy alchemy on the lavender bush – (It’s true. As I was writing these words, right in front of me was the most breathtaking view, which if anything only highlighted the trivial nature of my concerns in the grand scheme of things, formed as it was over many hundreds of million years, a view that will remain as unchanged as it was before I was and as it will do after I am) – I reflect that that bee’s only have an instinct do whereas man is cursed with a knowledge of a past and an sense of what the future might bring – even if it almost always never ever turns out that way – as I dwell on this I hear carefree laughter, which only serves to highlight my foreboding – sense of rootlessness, of not having a purpose.
But in most extreme case of being careful what you wish for, it’s now 06.50am on Saturday 26th September and I’ve been awake since 04.45am, scared to go back to sleep. What occasioned this was me waking up and then feeling a cramp like sensation in my lower left leg, from the calf down. Waiting for it to abate almost immediately, it hasn’t. There is still some tingling, not pins and needles exactly but noticeably there. Pointing my toes up towards my body is something I can do but feel instinctively – why and how I know not – that I shouldn’t. Mindful of the fact that others are sleeping in the house, I’ve gingerly attempted to put some weight on it. It doesn’t feel as strong as the right one, but then I am in a state of heightened anxiety, a state, which has to be said, is in no way helped by occasional twinges in my upper left arm. At least I think they’re twinges.
As I say, I scared to go back to sleep and not just because my Mother had a stroke last year. Am I having a minor one or am I thinking too much? Is my left arm tired just because it is tired or is it something else entirely? Is the slackness on the lower left side of my mouth something real or imagined? And more importantly, why am I writing this, when my time might be put to better use?