A Mind Not My Own
Throughout my life, I have repeatedly heard said about me that I have a mind of my own. Some people say it while beaming proudly (my father) while others pass the judgement with a sad shake of the head like a terminal illness diagnosis that can not be altered. I always accepted this verdict with a certain amount of pride after all why would anyone want a mind- not their own?
Last night however, while desperately trying to fall back to sleep at three in the morning (my method is lying in bed with my eyes firmly shut pretending to be fast asleep; the assumption being that the pretence will hopefully turn into reality at some point!), I realized that everyone has been wrong about me including myself. I do not have a mind of my own, in fact my mind is not my own. It lodges inside my skull scorning all my attempts at mind over matter. It persistently delves into melancholy despite my repeatedly lecturing it on my determination to be happy. It insists on working overtime in the middle of the night, when I'd rather be asleep and insists on shutting down at nine at night when I'd rather be awake. It shudders at the cold even though I have told it that all seasons must be enjoyed. It seeks out negativity when I am trying to stay positive. I have told it that I am lucky to have so many people around me who make me feel loved and yet it secretly hopes to win the approval of the ones who don't give it; like a dog looking for crumbs from the table while ignoring the meal on it's plate. It makes me feel tired when I would love to embrace the image of myself as a bouncy, energetic thirty-eight year-old. It brings me down when I would prefer always being up.
I have heard that while in solitary confinement, your mind is either your salvation or your damnation. I have no wish to test this theory since I have a feeling that in my case, my mind will fall into the category of "with friends like these who needs enemies."
Last night however, while desperately trying to fall back to sleep at three in the morning (my method is lying in bed with my eyes firmly shut pretending to be fast asleep; the assumption being that the pretence will hopefully turn into reality at some point!), I realized that everyone has been wrong about me including myself. I do not have a mind of my own, in fact my mind is not my own. It lodges inside my skull scorning all my attempts at mind over matter. It persistently delves into melancholy despite my repeatedly lecturing it on my determination to be happy. It insists on working overtime in the middle of the night, when I'd rather be asleep and insists on shutting down at nine at night when I'd rather be awake. It shudders at the cold even though I have told it that all seasons must be enjoyed. It seeks out negativity when I am trying to stay positive. I have told it that I am lucky to have so many people around me who make me feel loved and yet it secretly hopes to win the approval of the ones who don't give it; like a dog looking for crumbs from the table while ignoring the meal on it's plate. It makes me feel tired when I would love to embrace the image of myself as a bouncy, energetic thirty-eight year-old. It brings me down when I would prefer always being up.
I have heard that while in solitary confinement, your mind is either your salvation or your damnation. I have no wish to test this theory since I have a feeling that in my case, my mind will fall into the category of "with friends like these who needs enemies."