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The Impotent Prisoner

8 years ago2,224 words

I feel as if the 'me' that roams around and interacts in the real world is a completely different person to the 'me' that hides in my room alone for the entirety of almost every day. Getting out and being active gives me a kind of confidence and cheer that's absent when I'm stuck entirely in my mind. I just wish I had a chance to be that me more often! I did on Monday, though the 'imprisoned' me has prevented me from writing about it until now. I also went to sit outside in public and the sun just so then I could overcome certain fears and read some emails I referred to in the previous post...

Trains and Brains

Monday was a bit of an adventure. I wrote a while ago about how I volunteered to be a guinea pig in a psychology experiment here at university which involved an fMRI scan of my brain, which found abnormalities. I'd been waiting weeks since then for a consultation with a neurosurgeon, which was on Monday. It required a three hour train ride to get there (and another to get back), about which I was both anxious and excited.

I only started going on trains by myself just a couple of years ago; before that, I was far too scared. Too anxious to use buses, also, or even to venture out of the house at all. Those dark days of isolation mean that the mundane is novel and exciting to me now; I marvel at what to others are just part of the scenery of their daily lives. Feel surprised by the ordinary.

I did a lot of people watching, and noticed how warped and restricted my idea of what people look like had become from seeing only the beautiful people in media and the few familiar faces around me. Passing by hundreds of strangers on the six trains and their stations (two changes each way) reminded me of the intriguing variety in facial structures, body types, and overall demeanours of 'ordinary' people. I've always felt this way when I've been to airports - another rarity - and I always wish I could just spend forever drawing every unique face I see.

Everyone has a story, and I wondered how much of each person's story was written in their appearance. A lot, I imagine. I tried to guess what each person's destination was, their place in the world, their thoughts, dreams, worries and fears. Their relationships. Were any as lonely as me? How many were satisfied with life? I wish I could have just asked; too bad it's against social etiquette.

I wondered in particular about intelligence... How common high intelligence is, how obvious it is from appearance. I saw a lot of people who to me seemed lacking in intelligence - at least compared to me - but felt mean for judging them in this way... while wondering about the accuracy of my assessments. Honestly, it makes me feel alienated, wondering whether my mind operates on a different wavelength to the majority of people... But I suppose it's mostly just that the sorts of people who are sharp-minded are unlikely to be going around on trains during off-peak hours on a week day. They're most likely at their jobs, or in their bedrooms.

Due to my anxieties, people in the past have assumed that I'd struggle to, say, ask a stranger for directions, or a similar bit of information. I don't, and had to ask several strangers "is this the right train?" or "is this train going to X?" over the course of the day, which I did without hesitation, stumbling or lingering worry. It's sad that these fleeting social interactions - if they can even be called that - lit sparks in me, deprived as I am. Like someone starving finding some satisfaction from crumbs.

An old lady sat next to me on the first train, and started talking to me. I know my other posts have given the impression that I'm some kind of bumbling buffoon when I find myself interacting with other humans, but if anything I'd think my 'performance' in this situation was... well, without excessive error, at least. We talked a bit, pleasantly, and she was sorry to see me go when my stop came up rather than obviously put off by anything that I said.

If anything, I think that I probably react to these random interactions with more interest and involvement than most people might. From what I've observed (though my observations are admittedly limited), most people (at least in this country) respond to being talked to by a stranger with noncommittal politeness; fake laughs, "oh really?"s, things like that. I ask questions, give them my full attention, engage them and make them feel heard. Part of it's a desperate desire for human interaction, part of it's a defence mechanism (they're less likely to hurt and attack me!), part of it's a genuine desire to hear the stories of other minds. I'm generally been thanked for the way I respond, so I know I'm not completely off-putting or inept.

Eventually I arrived in the neurology hospital, and went through the necessary social interactions (asking at reception, etc) far more easily than I might have in the past. I felt good about that. I was surprised, though, to see the waiting area full of ∞ chavs ∞; the lower classes. There was even a television playing the UK equivalent of Jerry Springer (The Jeremy Kyle Show). Some people had obvious neurological issues, and others had glaring surgical scars on their skulls; I felt sick seeing them. Scared.

My appointment was of course delayed - to be expected, really - so I spent a while just staring at a screen which listed the names of the specialists and their current appointment; my name would flash up on the screen when I was ready to be seen. I noticed that I'd be seeing someone with a Mr (not Dr) and an Indian surname I can't quite remember. Unconscious prejudices conjured up an image - I think directly inspired by doctors I'd seen in the past - of an overweight, tired-looking middle-aged Indian man with a thick accent who'd struggle to understand mine. I dreaded the feeling of a language barrier blocking perfect communication. I also fantasised about being impressive; intelligent, polite, alert, aware, at least moreso than these people around me. I hoped to be a welcome change from the difficult simpletons the specialist would normally see. Someone more on his level, perhaps. Ah, ego... and delusions. I'm not proud of thinking this way, but I won't deny it to seem better than I am.

When my name finally did flash up on the screen, I went to a room where I was greeted by a tall, slim, well-groomed man in a smart, immaculate blue suit. His intelligence was intense and obvious. I was pleasantly surprised. Intrigued, also, by how obvious that intelligence was compared to the people I'd passed by throughout the day. I suppose most of the people I've interacted with in my life haven't been especially bright... Not morons, perhaps; just not brilliant. Talking to someone who is just feels on a whole other level... and of course this man was (presumably) a brain surgeon, so of course his brain would be sharp indeed!

The whole experience was quite amusing though. Extremely short; after travelling for three hours to get there, I was probably in his office for less than five minutes. He was quite condescending! The impression I got was that he was the sort of person who's technically brilliant, but who sees human (or at least patient) interaction as a chore to be endured with gritted teeth.

He greeted me with a disengaged handshake and asked me - without interest - how I was feeling, as people do. I, being who I am, replied "anxious!". He seemed irritated. Partly because he didn't actually have any scans of my brain even though I'd given them to the doctor to send to him (I sensed when I saw that doctor that she lacked the sharpness I sensed in this man, so I wasn't especially surprised). He looked again at the letter he'd been sent and read for a moment, deathly silent, intensely alert. He told me to calm down. Stop worrying. Just breathe. There's no reason to worry. My findings are probably nothing. I gave him another CD of my scans which I'd brought in case he didn't have the others, and he said through gritted teeth that he couldn't view them on the computer right in front of him and would have to go through a whole (clearly frustrating) procession of people to finally see them. He said he'd do that, write me a letter, then maybe do another scan and probably just discharge me, then flashed a fake, closed-mouth smile for a fraction of a second, told me again to not worry in a way that was more commanding than comforting, and then hinted strongly that we were done here and that I needed to leave.

Far from being impressed by my brightness, he clearly saw me as a pest to be swatted away; a waste of his precious time. He interrupted me when I tried to speak, and when I mentioned that a recent eye test had found abnormalities in my optic nerve, he essentially just said I'd got the poor optician involved in my damn hypochondriac delusions and waved it away.

Despite all this, I left laughing. I didn't resent him for being treated that way at all; if anything, his irritation suggested that I should indeed stop worrying (though he hadn't actually seen my scans, so I'm still at least a bit concerned). I was more interested in 'analysing' and understanding him as a person than in anything else, as I think what I've written here shows! I can fully understand why he'd dismiss me so quickly; he must deal with wastes-of-time like this often, and it's not like he knew me or had any reason to care about me as a person.

Anyway. I just found the whole thing amusing and interesting. I wonder what it's like to live his life. What he's like outside that environment. Is he nice? Do people like him? Or is he the 'brilliant but difficult' sort? I wonder.

Though it seemed a bit of a waste of time and money to go all that way for so brief a consultation, I enjoyed the adventure of it, just getting out of the house. I know it's mundane to most, but it's rare that I get such opportunities, so I savour them when they do arise.

Email Relief

That was Monday. I felt alive. But Tuesday, yesterday... I wasted the day depressed, sluggish, lifeless, weighed down by negative thoughts. I didn't leave the house, didn't even get dressed, and got nothing done; just sat there staring into space feeling sorry for myself. What a waste.

So, today I tried harder. I knew I had those emails that I needed to at least read, but I felt unable to do so while trapped alone in my dingy room. It's as if I literally am trapped in a prison cell, sapped of strength. If what I read is uncomfortable, I'll be entirely alone, destroyed by distress, and it's that I try to escape through avoidance.

Knowing that I'm far braver when out and active in the world, I went to sit on a bench in the middle of town to read the emails there. It worked; with the sun beating down and people all around me, it felt as if my demons' claws were dulled, like being watched (even if nobody was actually looking at me) gave me less freedom to indulge my bizarre behaviours.

I did check my emails, and was pleasantly surprised by both!

One, from Greg of Kongregate, was basically just saying that he was charged with contacting old, inactive developers to see what they're up to and whether Kongregate can help in any way. I was the first person he thought of, he said. He said my recent work seemed interesting, and offered to help in any way he could. So that's nice. I just feel bad about taking so long to read it! I still need to reply though.

The other email was a reply from a neurology lecturer here at university, which I feared in case he said 'no' to my offer to help with his project because I missed the deadline. Instead, he said something like "wow, that was worth the wait!" and seemed really eager and interested in what I'd written to him. Excited, even! Again, I regret assuming a negative and putting off even reading it... and taking so long to reply! It's been almost two weeks! I wonder where things will go from here though.

I feel a deep sense of relief from facing these fears, though it does underline the restrictive mental effects that isolation can have. I think in future when I feel I can't face something like an email or messages, I'll just go and sit outside again, as I assume it'll help a lot!