Lying on the Couch

My mind is a cage; this world in my head is bustling and busying itself with worry. Electric, frenetic energy buzzes and blips about my thoughts giving charge to my greatest fears. With so much to choose from, so many people I can look like, feel like, think like, be like- my head forgets itself. The whole, bright world is happening around me and I catch myself locked in my head, restrained in the padded walls of my psyche. I sat on the edge of a great glassy lake, so crisp with clarity that when I peered in I could see a second world of earth and sky and trees and mountains and myself, standing in the middle of all of the wonders of God feeling very much misplaced. I stood on this beach by this lake in this wood on this mountain on this land by this ocean that flowed water to all the corners of the planet and I felt scared by magnitude. I am too small for this world, too small for this earth and with every thought after I pushed deeper into myself and grabbed hold tight, trying not to fall off the face of the Earth into insignificance. Now I'm small in the world inside my head, the world of my creation, the one that I only can control. With every poke and jab and poor decision I shrink and shrink and collapse into a heap and there are no helpful "Eat Me" tablets and "Drink Me" potions to build me back up again so easily. I lay every piece of my insecurity down like brickwork to pave the road ahead of me, stepping on every disappointment and slight to push them down into the Earth. I've grown better than these words, these labels, these diagnoses. After the path, I sow seeds of Zoloft and Wellbutrin and Depakote and Seroquel and Geodon and Trazadone and Lamictal and pill after pill after pill. What do you know, perfectly controlled and conformed flowers sprout in their place. They never grow thorns and they resist weeds and as long as you feed them the medicine cabinet, they'll never fall out of place. The butterflies who drink in the comforting nectar climb under the glass and pin themselves down to admit defeat rather than fighting, fighting to fly and retreat from the case on the wall of the scientist; he's to busy laughing at the ease of experimenting on push-pins and pincushions who take the advice from the "professional" to notice- when you earn your degree, then you can disagree. Just one more butterfly stuck through the heart as he stares from behind the blank screen to dissect my memories and fears and sexual perversions and thoughts of my mother. My thoughts are his toys to play with and probe, until he tires of his playthings and wants to play God. Ice-pick lobotomies, quick in and out and if you sign here right now, you get two hemispheres for the price of one! Brain in a jar, you can't feel the pain if you can't feel a thing. Shock it or slice it or shrink it and shuffle the pieces around but the sadness, confusion and terrifying feelings don't go away, they just find a settle into the new place you've put them. They lay there dormant for years while the scientists celebrate rehabilitation and chuck me back into the world, unprepared with a shiny new smile and a glassy look in my eyes. I suppose this is health, this is wellness if all appears well then they did their job well and isn't it swell and I don't talk of hell and don't I feel well? They count their dollars as I count the pills, take four in the morning and two after lunch and six in the evening and call me if anything hurts, but nothing hurts since you took out my brain and keep it in that jar on the shelf with the others. How many others have you saved this way? Just one more glass jar on the shelf with more behind me and more to come, but we still call this medicine. We still call this better. We still call this happy.