I don't sleep. I mean, of course I sleep, everyone does. Even those self-proclaimed insomniacs who wear their lack of sleep like a God-damn badge of honor eventually succumb. It's simple biology. The reticular activating system of the brain eventually gives out, and then almost imperceptibly, poof!, the lights go out and you find yourself starring at your alarm clock annoyed. So here I am again, lying in bed, not sleeping. The gears in my head turning and turning and turning and turning. The inertia such that only a great force applied in the exact opposite direction can cease the incessant motion. Hashing and rehashing events past and present in rapid fire succession. Things that have happened, are happening, will happen, are somewhat likely to happen, and that are unliklely to happen, are generally negative, but I am still decidedly concerned about. Anxiety's voice, it is, this constant chatter. It wasn't always this way. My mind wasn't always some out of control short-circuited mechanical bull. I remember a time not being so constantly burdened by thought , then at some point in college formal operational thinking kicked in, and it all went to shit. Like a God-damn nuclear explosion, I lost innocence and beautiful oblivion and my existence was forever changed. Enter stage right your current basket case of anxiety and rumination.
Sometimes I sweat incessantly for weeks at a time. Inexplicable this sweating. And voluminous. It's my nerves I'm certain. There is a malignant tumor in my brain (my doctor denies this) that acts as the command center for my anxiety, and by some yet undescribed mechanism, this command center sends neural signals that open the valves under my arms. What then ensues is a two to three week sweat cycle, during which I walk around all day trying not to lift my arms and reveal my soiled underarms. I've tried everything: cold showers, hot showers, ice baths, every deodorant known to man in varying quantities, botox, tea tree oil, meditation, yoga, psychotherapy, even scream therapy. All to no effect. Week before last I was showing a beautiful Mediterranian on a cool, breezy morning to a Puerto Rican couple of some affluence. I believe the husband was a neurologist. I was in the middle of a speech espousing the virtues of the eat-in kitchen when the couple abruptly stopped and asked me if I was feeling ok. Looking down, I realized to my horror there were clear sweat rings reaching nearly to my nipples in the front and bisecting my wing bones in the back. I had sweat through my suit. Despite repeated assurances, I was clear they were concerned. Perhaps they thought I was in some kind of withdrawl. "Did somebody have a big night out last night?" They did not buy.
This process is all subliminal. I have no awareness of this nerve center is running amok. It acts with free will. Then one day, it just stops, as abruptly as it began, and I can wear my dark blue shits again. Remember your training man. Just focus on your breath and all this falderall will fly away. But now I'm thinking about my lungs. The alveoli to be precise. Am I short of breath? I may be short of breath I think.
