Control Deficient

Mio Corpo,

Way before our novel pandemic, trendy hand sanitizer and Kim Kardashian face-masks, I found myself in a 4 x 4 sterile field- a control bubble that my immune system (or lack-thereof)  deemed essential and my mind later adopted for relief. Acknowledging my addictive character, I long ago foresaw the development of neurotic coping behaviour declaring itself through compulsive cleaning and overthought turned stone cold neuroticism. In the mania of lost control, it is interesting what we will do to not feel control deficient, gasping for jurisdiction like oxygen. I look at this as a form of failed responsive design, adapting to a new environment while maintaining our content requirements. The content feels displaced, disregarding the preferred design scheme as long as the quota is met; however cheap, however different, however awkward.

My nerves are radiated, frayed and unreliable. My feet ridicule my psyche, reminding me of their role in meaningful active pastimes that I can’t yet resume. I know, I’m eager. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine the heavy shuffle of my feet on the pavement, my face penetrating the fresh wind barrier, leaping 1, 2, 10,000 steps forward, liberated and progressive. I sink back to the eruptive feeling of endorphins encircling my mind, a surge of satisfaction that I had made it, mechanical heart valve and all. I keep that advert front and centre, working towards my release from this prison or even parole. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to be alive, I wish I didn’t take my anatomy for granted. I’m entitled to mourn my fallen authority, without prejudice, without persecution but with appreciation for where my legs will take me now…

Today, I chose to take a leap of faith and push beyond the limit I set for myself, to see if I could start to rebuild the trust that I once had with my body. I staggered my feet, one foot in-front of the other, quicker then faster until the familiarity of my activity instigated a tirade of cordial endorphins, rekindling a fire that I thought was long extinguished.

In my excitement I stammered, singing songs in a community of AirPods, enclosed and encapsulated in their own reality as my realm of possibilities broadened- with cautious optimism.

My mind echoes and reverberates with cynicism, a wild wolf that I cannot silence but that sometimes gifts me a reprieve from barking- those are the good days, today was a good day. If you’re anything like me, the noise is difficult to manage, at its apex, deafening and uproarious. What is the prescription to mute the resounding “What If?” or turn off the movie reel flashbacks, an ever-present electrostatic that imbues my gut, making me perpetually queasy. Perhaps, this is my new normal, another byproduct of a life transplanted, uprooted, and left to sprout- growing pains. 

From an early age, medicine has played a vital role, supplying tune-ups to my recurrently reanimated body. As a discipline, its’ directive is venerable, though in my experience, the principle focus is on the corpo (body). My evolving mental grit is what frames my experience and so I nourish it through this channel. It has become callused, capricious and chief to my recovery – the essence that separates the living from “the alive”.

The noise has gone down, the wolf rattles the house windows with its snore, promising to return tomorrow. 

I’m off to take advantage of some downtime. 

Frankenstein, thanks for being good to me.