Jaundice of the Soul

There was a time my head moved—it shifted like the cracking of a concrete foundation. Neurotransmitters fried into dead chemical compounds, wireless detritus bouncing to and fro. Cranium bleeds common, not an aneurysm more like the bloody soul destroyed by too many ignored pleas for help. In the end I become polluted with denial.

Standing on the windy platform for hours, waiting, just waiting, trains blowing by. Swallowing Xanax to no effect, sleep remote. Now I walk backwards, for there is no more ‘towards.’

Plugged in like a gaunt Sylvia Plath I am transformed. Later, this machine comes with an anesthetic which so reminds me of dying it appeals to me. Upon waking, somehow lighter each time. Back to high dependency.

To feel absolutely whole is a mystery slicing the edge of commonplace and abnormality. Dopamine diggers grab a good time. Chemical imbalance in the dark is scary, if you have any serotonin left. Neurology splices a slice of cranial cord breaking the spine and disturbing the already deranged brain. Yolks are split in two like the schizoid personality. Borderline disorder lies to protect what has already been taken.

But the horrors of the deep in that bean-shaped specimen milk the head of sharpness. Enter your death warrant and it’s over. How to Manage the Impossible should be the title of the great book of depression. Forensic science can’t find it. Doctors can’t see it. Therefore it doesn’t exist. Physical pain is a nuisance; but when the head hurts like a ball on the end of a chain nothing can be done.