Apparently the time I spent walking around my house Wednesday morning violently passing out onto various pieces of furniture, the floor, wasn’t just for recreational kicks. Mono has reappeared at my doormat with a bouquet of chrysanthemums for our one-year anniversary, even though I told her to go fuck a domesticated animal (preferably not a dog) somewhere in the Gwangju province of South Korea.
The mono doesn’t seem to be nearly as nefarious this time around, though. Weird how you can observe illness for what it really is when your mind is steady enough to focus on external situations, i.e. the mind’s flaming eye hasn’t turned itself inward like goddamn Sauron and summoned all its orcs and minions to attack you 24/7 without a water break.
Still, the isolation does leave time to wonder — not shower epiphany wondering, but instead the 15 hours of alone time per day “I’m going to recall and intently focus on everything I’ve managed to distract myself from for the past however many months that will inevitably lead to hurt/melancholy/jealousy/rage, and then do extensive research on these memories with the use of reference works handy at all nameable cardinal directions” kind of wondering. Shit. Sometimes a good “goddamn” just feels better. Don’t ask me how anger and cadence are correlated. I didn’t invent the language. I am only confused by it.
“That you don’t have to hit somebody even if you really really want to,” says Dave. Maybe explain yourself a little, there, Dave, because I can lash out in so many forms and mediums, and I’d truly like to. Veritably, if you want a more cosmopolitan word. I’m insanely angry. And I’m sober. Mono means rest, which means unrest, which means insane amounts of boredom and no alcohol for the cure, because your liver is kind of the instigator in this whole debacle. Cruel, to break a kid’s leg and then take away his crutch. Rage surges at a time I’m supposed to be lacking energy. So many stereotypes exist about alcohol and an individual’s true character coming to fruition. I find I can only ever get really mad when I’m sober. Like now.
And then I walk away. Teeth brushing, nightly eye gouging, etc. And then I come back to read Dave’s quote. I’m aware of his wisdom. His compassion. Still possessing a pretty strong desire to shove my fist through anything porcelain/enamel/glass/plaster, though. Then I go to bed.
I wake up, and it’s OK. This is regeneration. In some minor way (major over time), I’m not the person I was when I fell asleep last night. I’ve killed a part of this person, stranded him on an island in the past without canned meat or canteen. There’s this scientific thing (some might use the term “fact”) about how after age 25, when we lose brain cells from you-name-it irresponsible human activity, the cells no longer regenerate. They just die. I wonder if this is true for personality traits as well. After we go to bed every night, a small, reprehensible piece of our personality (ego? should those be equated=?) dies, never to return, and we spend the remainder of our lives whittling ourselves down to a simpler, more perfect self. There’s always regression to be found in nostalgia, an awareness of our complicated former selves that tends to make renewed, pernicious attempts at complication. But, like the lonely Boy Scout on a tree that has stumped itself for his sitting convenience, we continue to whittle.
This contains less cussing than I predicted. It would also more appropriately belong to livejournal.com than a blog with this mission statement: https://themindisaterriblethingofwaste.wordpress.com/about/