Running from the Elephants
The noiseless motion of my current therapist’s thumb and forefinger stun me as I watch in silence. “What, in the hell, is this guy doing?” I thought to myself as we sat, speechlessly watching his fingers slide across one another. “Do you know what this is Cash?” Dr. Lytle, questioned me in a calm voice. His blank stare made answering the rhetorical question more irritating than the odd angle at which my long-board rested against the far wall; “No.”
After a few more seconds of finger rubbing he looked me in the eyes and said, “this, this is the sound that keeps the elephants away.” I immediately re-situated myself, and once again attained the good posture I displayed at the beginning of our meeting. I was intrigued by his bizarre statement. The lack of security constantly strained upon my thoughts ceased to control my mind, and I looked up from the window blinds that blocked the last bit of sun from shining through the glass that opposed me. ‘What elephants?’ I asked, giving the doctor the implied response he desired. “The elephants that one man believes will massacre all of humanity.”
The questions about to spill out of my mouth were suddenly stopped as I realized they were being asked of me: “what happens when this troubled man, for whatever reason, cannot make the only noise that gives him some sense of safety?”
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Initiation of my self-claimed disorder was in no way obvious. Getting the perfect feel from everything is not only something I deemed relaxing, but was also required to avoid extreme amounts of stress. The intense motivation to act against my will provided nearly just as much anxiety. Throughout childhood my jeans were always cut at the end so they did not scrunch up. Every time I so much as rubbed up against someone I would have to count profusely in an order that separates what I consider to be good and evil. Attributes such as appearance, aura, and personality bombard my brain, compel me to make generalizations about everyone and everything I see or interact with. Someone observing would never have noticed how I would avoided certain swings at recess because of how the swing was twisted, or where it lay in the sunlight. No one thought it out of the ordinary that I only journeyed to certain parts of the playground, but then again I never gave them any insight to my reasoning.
“Is something wrong, Casher?” My elementary teachers would ask every so often when they caught a glimpse of me tensing up with extreme discomfort during read aloud. I would quickly lose breath once realized that I was the center of attention.
“I can't breath very well; I think I need to go to the nurse.”
“Are you sure?” Was always the expected response. Although my teachers never seemed to understand why I would randomly appear to be drowning in a pool of fear, they all managed come to one conclusion: the asthma inhaler that awaited me in the nurses office simply did not help my condition at all. Then again, how are synthetic steroids for my lungs supposed to help sooth my mind in the first place?
Night after night I sleep on whichever side of my body feels like it has less potential to negatively shape my future. When I sleep on my left I believe something will happen the next day involving my social and emotional life. Sleeping on my right means something will take effect on my physical life. Waking up only means entering a routine revolution of counting and acting against deceiving impulses. What satisfaction can lie in life when one has no control over their mind and the desires it provides them with? And who else could possibly understand the underlying values hidden within every notion and particle that fight hard to trap me in a world of fear, skepticism, and false belief?
older:
Running from the Elephants
The noiseless motion of my current therapist’s thumb and forefinger stun me as I watch in silence. “What, in the hell, is this guy doing?” I thought to myself, as we both sat speechless watching his fingers slide across one another. ‘Do you know what this is Cash?’ Dr. Lytle, a calm, but resilient man questioned me. With blank stare tearing right through his eyes I answered the rhetorical question; ‘No.’ After a few more seconds of finger rubbing he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘this, this is the sound that keeps the elephants away. Re-situating myself in Dr. Lytle’s stunningly comforting arm chair, I once again attained the good posture I displayed at the beginning of our meeting, as I was intrigued by his bizarre statement. The lack of security constantly strained upon thoughts fell out of my conscience, and my mind opened in hope of an explanation that could solve my endless anxiety. ‘What elephants?’ I asked, giving the doctor the implied response he desired. ‘The elephants, that one man believes, will massacre all of humanity.’ Dr. Lytle quickly replied. As if the inquiries I was about to pester the therapist with were typical, my first question was interrupted as it was asked of myself: “what happens when this troubled man, for whatever reason, cannot make the only so called noise that gives him some sense of safety?”
Friday morning, on the day after my somewhat consistent weekly meeting with my therapist, the same simultaneous thoughts run through my mind as I obsess over the thought of my purpose. Is that what casts so much fear over my daily life? The hypothetical situation in which each and every human is here solely to experience life, and that the soul each individual is bound to can only be thoroughly understood and interacted with once we don’t exist in our physically able form. The rare sight of a breathe taking butterfly fluttering in spontaneous movement always manages to remind me that, every action and thought that consumes what we consider time has some effect, as miniscule as it may be, on everything in existence. An entire life of “what if’s” has led me to natural and artificial vices that I view as imperative to finding happiness within myself. My skewed perception of what it means to live nearly requires me to judge and analyze everything in my sight through unfocused eyes that make connections that are void of any normality.
Night after night I sleep on the whichever side of my body feels like it will not create a negative turn of events in my future experiences while reoccurring phobias and unanswered questions circle my though pool. Waking up only means entering a routine revolution of counting and acting against deceiving impulses. What satisfaction can lie in life when one has no control over their mind and the desires it provides them with? And who else could possibly understand the underlying values hidden within every notion and particle that fight hard to trap me in a world of fear, skepticism, and false belief.
