Soma

SOMA noun, plural somata

 

[soh-muh-tuh] (Show IPA), somas. Biology.

1. the body of an organism as contrasted with its germ cells.

2. the body as distinct from the soul, mind, or psyche.

I am a Soma. I am my Soma Yes. That’s it! Eureka moment. All else, mentally and the rest of the stuff I like to lump in that bracket, are simply just external and incapable of being positive.

A soul is a fantastical religious concept (meaning I’ve got to believe in sky fairies etc), and my mental processes are just binary biological computer program results. It’s really that simple. Isn’t it? I am cells, blood, muscle, skin, hair, teeth, eyes, fingernails. That’s all. The rest is superfluous and is ultimately where the problems lie. Anything goes wrong with the soma I can go and point at it, a doctor can help me with it, and I can see the enemy I need to fight. Collapsing mental health is vague, has no origin point you can stick a needle in, and you can’t prove to someone that it is not your own fault you can’t function. Give me a broken leg any day; every day, if you like. I’d prefer the dull crack of splintering bone to having BPD.

Yeah, but…. Since I am now me (physically) I have to start taking care of that precious Soma and the rub of mental illness is that you don’t – least I don’t. I eat wrong, use drugs, and I self harm. No decent way to care for your physical being now, is it. So I’m damned even though I’ve found the answer.

Meanwhile I’ll get used to the feel of cold rain on skin, the fullness of a hot meal, my breath after walking up a mountain, and the itch I can’t scratch. It’s all that’s important, right? Forget love, art, music. They can’t heal a wound or help my heart to beat.

DO I really believe this? Nah. If only. It is the fractured wishing of a man who can’t control his emotions, or how he interacts with the world. It’s a savage mental trick. I’m not just a biological robot, and mental illness is not a simple germ-like organism that can be washed away in bleach. I am my personality disorder, unfortunately. Sometimes I like to think, on cold wet days like this, the feel of sun on my skin is all I need to solve everything; that everything can be put in a petri dish and scraped over until it’s well again.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s