Loving your brain

by Gaetan (via Wikipedia)

We're reminded almost constantly to treat out bodies right. We're told to exercise so our muscles stay strong, eat healthy foods so our bodies get the vitamins and minerals they need, to protect our skin from the sun and make sure we get regular dental checkups.

When we get sick, injured or just achy, our co-workers tell us to go home and take care of ourselves. Get some medicine. Have someone cook you some chicken soup. Give your body the love and attention it needs to get well again.

Our brains, however, don't get nearly so much love and attention. We're constantly making demands out of the thing, insisting that it perform perfectly at work, remember the kids' schedules when we get home and think up something brilliant for our anniversary. We get mad at it every time it forgets something, and when it feels things we don't want it to we bottle the emotions up and pretend they're not happening. We're expected to be able to work forever, shake off negative feelings, and constantly achieve more.

But it's just as important to take care of our minds as it is our bodies, maybe more so. Our bodies may be what keep us alive, letting us do all those wonderful things like walk, talk and breathe on a regular basis, but the brain is the switchboard that makes it all happen. You wouldn't lovingly take care of a sports car only to mistreat the engine, would you?

What people tend to forget is that our minds are just as fragile and just as prone to injury as our bodies. That organ that allowed Beethoven to write symphonies that outlasted him my centuries, or Einstein to discover things about the universe that no one had ever imagined before, is just a small, wrinkled organ that's so complex internally that scientists are only beginning to understand it. If something as relatively simple as an arm or a leg can get damaged so many ways, imagine the trouble that the brain can get in to.

But we shouldn't be ashamed of our brains for getting tired, or even breaking, any more than we are when our muscles and bones do the same thing. We should learn to accept its frailties the same way we accept that we'll never be a size six, no matter how many diets we go on, or that we'll never run as fast an as Olympic sprinter no matter how hard we train. Sometimes we get a cold, no matter how hard we try to protect ourselves from germs, and sometimes we feel sad for no reason we can explain.

Once we can accept that our brains aren't perfect, then maybe we can start learning to take care of them as well as we do our bodies. Addiction can have as many effects on the mind as it does the body, and seeking treatment can improve your life on more than just a physical level. Taking breaks, and not being quite so hard on yourself, can help lower potentially damaging stress levels. Seeking treatment for depression can help you reclaim the life you no longer feel like you have the energy to maintain.

It's normal to take vitamins to improve our bodies, or medicine when we're sick and need to feel well again. It's normal to pamper aching muscles for a little while, giving them the chance to heal. We need to learn to treat our brains the same way.
 

Mapping my mind

One of the most important tasks of a map is to identify the dangerous places. Landslides, impossibly strong currents, jagged rocks – we mark down where they are, so the people who come after us can know to stay away. Some choose to venture in anyway, but the map helps them know they need to be cautious.

            There are days when my entire head seems to be a dangerous place. There are hurts so old and deep that the resulting emotional scar tissue rises up like mountains. Waves of emotion will crash into me at unpredictable moments, strong enough to send even the toughest ship off course. Monsters of panic lurk in the shadows, always ready to send their claws at my throat.

            I started mapping the inside of my head when I was in high school, trying to time the waves so I would at least know what direction they were going to toss me in. It took me years of careful, methodical study before I could predict them as well as the tides, trying to organize my life so that my tasks best suited my emotional state and forgiving myself when I couldn’t. Learning to let the water only carry me so far, and to never forget how off course I was.

            Those years added more details to the map, cautious expeditions into the thickets of fear and careful outlines of the boundaries of the pits of self-doubt. I know the shape of my scar-tissue mountains, and have carefully outlined a few careful trails that will let me navigate the foothills without getting caught in an unclimbable area or falling to my death. I have marked many of the places where panic waits, and though I can’t avoid it I am no longer surprised.

            None of this has razed the mountains, cleared the jungles or defeated the monsters waiting for me. The purpose of a map is only to identify what’s already there, leaving the choice of what to do with it to the person reading. It’s a light in the darkness, not a weapon.

            But oh, how I need that light. The world is still a terrifying place, full of uncertainty and things that want to hurt me, but over the years I have stopped being afraid of myself. I know the contours of my mind as I know few other things, and even the dangers have become as familiar to me as the walls of my bedroom. I have learned how to navigate them, and because of that they are no longer enough to stop me from exploring the wild, beautiful places my mind contains as well. Any jungle has its treasures as well as its dangers, and if you watch for them both there is no place that’s closed to you.

             I’m not quite there yet. There are still a few shadowy places that I’m not brave enough to venture in, too uncertain what I’ll find once I cross beyond the boundaries of what I know. But I will, one day.

            A map maker doesn’t like blank places.  

Losing my spot by the wall

I’m terrible at social media. Mostly, I think, because it has the word “social” in it.

I’ve been an outcast long enough that certain survival instincts are almost hard-wired into my DNA. Whenever I’m surrounded by a large group of people all chatting together, my nerve endings scream at me to put my back against the nearest wall, close my mouth, and watch the crowd.

 

I learned years ago that I am a profoundly weird person, and if allowed to talk without careful pre-planning I’ll come up with something that will inevitably make the majority of society stare at me in shock and/or confusion. The only safe place was the spot by the wall, where there was less chance that someone would hunt me down and force me to accidentally say something that would make all the normal people stare at me. Later, I learned to study the people around me, figure out what they wanted me to say, and plan a few safe lines in advance.

In time, I learned to love my spot by the wall. People were so fascinating, sending out signals with their faces and bodies that often had nothing to do with the words they were saying. I watched people interacting with each other, listening to tiny slices of life that suggested long, wonderful stories I spun out in my mind. When I was allowed to be invisible, the world opened up to me. It’s that perspective that fuels my vision as a writer, and I wouldn’t be parted from it for all the jewels in the world.

I would love social media if I never had to participate in it. Twitter is sprinkled with the most wonderful insights and witty one-liners, and I’ve read blog posts that made me laugh and broke my heart. Yes, there are the occasional posts about what people had for dinner, but life needs to have its boring bits. They make the hilarity and heartbreak that much sweeter.

But the fact that I have to talk as well makes me feel like a terrified teenager again. I have to watch every word I say, making sure it’s just quirky enough to not be lost in the shuffle but not so quirky that everyone thinks I’m too odd for them to like. Every time I’m confronted by Facebook’s cheerful “What’s on your mind, Jenniffer?” panic claws at me for just a moment.

I know there are wonderful people out there. I’ve met some of you, and I’ve delighted in the conversations we’ve had. But you’re lost in the crowd somewhere, undoubtedly talking to people who deserve much more of your time than I do, and I can’t very well wave you over every time a random thought crosses my mind. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed listening far more than I have talking, and would much rather go over and read your Tweets or blog posts instead of offering up my own.

I know that there are plenty of other social outcasts who have used the Internet to blossom, transforming into the wonderfully outgoing soul they were always meant to be. But I gave my blossom over to my books, and they’ve bloomed around me in an explosion of magic, love and laughter that makes me happy every time I visit it. There’s a bit of me in every word I write, but I like the fact that most people will never be able to see it.

But when I’m on Facebook, or Twitter, there’s no one else for people to see. And I don’t think that will ever stop terrifying me.

Getting to know you: Kate, from "Fairy Godmothers, Inc."

As annoying as getting-to-know you questions can be, they do have the useful side effect of actually helping people get to know you. So I made Kate, Fairy Godmother extraordinaire and lead character from my upcoming novel, “Fairy Godmothers, Inc.,” answer a few questions for you. In later weeks, I’ll pass the list around to other characters and maybe attack them with fresh ones.

What three adjectives best describe you?

Responsible, quick-thinking, secretly sarcastic

Who is the most influential person in your life?

Are we talking about a positive or negative influence? Either way, I can’t answer this without my mother never speaking to me again. While I fantasize about that, sometimes, it wouldn’t be a good idea in the long run.

Have you ever killed anyone?

Have you had anyone who actually answered this question with a yes? The key to committing a successful homicide is never letting anyone know you did it.

What nicknames would be most fitting for you?

Kate. Just Kate. But if you’ve hired me for an assignment, I’m contractually obligated not to smack you for calling me Katie.

How fast can you run a mile?

It depends on what’s chasing me. I’m not athletic, but I have a very strong sense of self-preservation.

Can you dance?

Just well enough to make sure clients don’t accidentally injure the prince/princess with their shoes. When I’m not at work, I generally grab an extra drink and find a chair somewhere.

What is your religion?

My mother is a practicing Naturalist, which means she believes in the spirits of flowers and trees. She doesn’t actually like it, but since all proper fairies are Naturalists she’s going to be one if it kills her.

As for me, I’m a Naturalist any time I’m talking to my mother. Beyond that, I’m willing to think kindly about any entity willing to think the same way about me.

What’s your favorite band?

Heavy Metals. It’s a group of dwarves, fronted by a very angry-sounding elf, who play (naturally) heavy metal music. Listening to them helps me resist the urge to slap people.

Thanks to http://www.amschultz.com/2/post/2012/10/how-well-do-you-know-your-characters-50-rapid-questions.html for the questions! Go check the rest of the list out!

Success, failure and bronze medals

stock photo

Sitting at home, it seems obvious which are the best medals to get – gold is better than silver, and silver is better than bronze. But when you watch the faces of the athletes, both as their waiting for their scores and just after they find them out, it doesn’t seem that simple anymore.

Sure, everyone wants to win gold, even if they’ve never been to the Olympics before and it’s a huge accomplishment to simply be in the running. The gold medal is the dream that got them here in the first place, standing on top of the podium with tears streaming down their faces as their national anthem gets pumped in over the loudspeakers (hopefully accurately). And I don’t think there can be anything more agonizing than fourth place, knowing you came so close to recognition but going home empty handed.

With second and third place, however, things become more complicated. Half the time, the person who ends up with the silver medal always seems crushed, either trying hard to look blank for the cameras or openly weeping in what is definitely not joy. Third place, on the other hand, usually seems pretty thrilled, grinning for the cameras with equal measures of relief and delight. Sometimes it’s reversed – bronze medal winners are never happy when they fall from a higher spot, and some silver medal winners have been thrilled – but in general third place seems like a happier spot than second.

I think the difference is where the line was in the athlete’s head. For the bronze medalists, it’s behind them – they did just good enough to make it inside medal territory, and so they feel relieved and proud of themselves. For silver medalists, however, it’s in front of them – they didn’t quite do good enough to win the gold. Their success is technically bigger than that of the bronze medalists, but all they can see is the failure.

Making our own worlds

What you believe in determines the reality around you. Optimists do really live in a world where the sun is always just around the corner, simply because they’re so certain of this that they’ll see that sunshine in whatever ends up actually showing up. Pessimists, on the other hand, really do never have anything good happen to them, because everything that happens is seen through the filter of that pessimism. If they won a million dollars, all they’d think about is how much they have to pay in taxes.

Self-help gurus label this “The power of positive thinking,” or whatever the buzzwords are these days, and make it seem like belief can be changed as simply as flipping a switch. Things not going well? Simply imagine them changing, imagine a can-do spirit and a determination never to give up, and boom! Suddenly, this will all be true.

But the kind of belief that shapes the world doesn’t care what’s logical, convenient, or sometimes even what you desperately chant to yourself every morning as a life mantra. The belief that makes us who we are is deep inside us, down in our bones and blood and so fundamental that we don’t give voice to it for the same reason we don’t think about gravity all the time. It’s just there, either holding us steady or keeping us from flying.

It all depends on what you believe.

Boxes, borders and extra puzzle pieces

Society expects people to make sense. In fact, it generally tries to force the issue, squeezing us all into convenient little boxes it can use to label and categorize. The vagaries of the need for solitude are forcibly paired up with those unable to reach out and are called “loners,” while those who love to talk, those who love to have people to talk to, and those who are desperate to keep talking so no one sees inside their hearts are all called “social.” It looks better on a spreadsheet, true, but it crushes the wonder of human complexity into a series of bullet points.

When society can’t find the box to stuff you in, it doesn’t know how to handle you. Where do you put the extroverted introverts, who love talking but only to a very small and select group of people? Or the quiet rabble-rousers, who don’t shout or speechify but are secretly full of righteous fury and desperate to change the world from behind the scenes? Do they move between the boxes, or do they exist outside them somewhere?

If it’s the latter, what happens to those who don’t force the world to see them? Are they free, or do they disappear? Are the boxes cages, or are they tribes?

Sigh. If this is what it’s like for an English Lit major in a quiet moment, I can’t imagine what poor Philosophy majors have to go through when they start thinking too hard. For their sakes, I hope they have an off switch of some kind.