I have a lot of trouble with forming thought, sometimes. A lot of the time, rather, and this is nothing new. Not for myself, not for the countless others stamped under boots of depression, mental illness, power structures that seek to eradicate the other.
Billy Woods ft. Elucid, “Lost Blocks”
Clearly this is not a new observation, I tell myself as I sip my coffee and rub my eyes, as if to clean up the haze and smudges on the lenses of my brain. Even that metaphor was a stretch, but it’ll suffice. It’s not a matter of not having the words, nor is it really a side effect of the new medication I’m taking that hides life behind an opaque curtain — but it helps muddy shit up.
Sometimes I’ll try to break through the fog by stepping out into the sun, but if you’ve seen the East Bay skies recently you’ll know that is a tough call. Not impossible, but you’d be hard pressed to venture into the world without at least a sweater and a coat.
Maybe I’m just a big fucking baby. A special snowflake, not ready for a harsh and unfeeling world. Maybe if the heat in our house worked I wouldn’t have to sleep with a space heater blasting more hot air in my face than Sean “Actually Melissa McCarthy” Spicer at a press briefing.
Again with the forced comparisons… simile? “More than” implies a direct connection between the two points, but it’s been a while since I’ve come face to face with the difference.
“I can’t think very well” is a common enough phrase to warrant some thought of its own on the matter. It’s “foggy,” really, that captures the sensation. I know I said that already, but this is my piece, so fuck off. If I could switch it off, I would, because lord knows I go through enough of it on my own. There is a swirling happening, and I’m trapped in the very edge of the vortex. I’m taking in more water than my lungs can handle, and it doesn’t look good.
Mindfulness can only go so far, really. As much as I try to center myself and breathe in, breathe out, and all over again; as much as I want to calm the deluge in my mind and sail on smooth waters; as much as I try my hardest to come up with words to describe what it’s like… I can’t. I forget words a lot, especially when I’m halfway through a sentence and I’ll draw a blank. A minor form of expressive aphasia, where I can formulate thoughts into words in my head, but upon opening my mouth all that comes out is verbal vomit. E. Henry Thripshaw’s Disease, from Monty Python’s Flying Circus, in a way. Total gibberish, with sprinkles of sense; a semblance of order in a sea of chaos.
I’ve written about my trouble with being able to form thoughts before, but recent developments in the world and in my life have forced my hand. I was the force behind it, so it does really seem you can’t trust anyone, not even yourself.
Facts aren’t really facts anymore, but they also are still facts, which adds another layer of confusion and doubt to my already frayed perception. I know what is and what isn’t, but I second guess myself a lot and on and on and on ad nauseam. Before long the inside of my brain is a hoarder’s den, stacked to the brim with rotting fruit, congealed clumps of paper and fabric mixed with cat vomit. Now that’s a good metaphor, not like that other shit.
I wire up on coffee to jumpstart my sluggish network, and it sometimes works. Most of the time I feel a warm sensation in my chest cavity with no discernible effect on processing power, so I jam more down my gullet. Still not much of an effect. I continue to swirl around and around, fighting to the top of the vortex for air, but inevitably being sucked down. Harsh noise can bring me back, but it only does so much.
For a final time, I clean up — I sweep and mop and throw out and burn, and it’s clear for a while. I feel lucid and sober. I put on soft music, perhaps Sigur Ros because I’m that asshole.
It will become cluttered and messy and hazy and foggy again, I know. I keep things in order for a time, until creeping chaos comes again.