Now, you are going to sit here, and you’re gonna write something original that people can relate to. And it must also be funny.
I’m gonna come back in two hours to check up on you, and you better have written something that will change the world. If not, I will continuously torture you with bad thoughts about how others are better at life than you, and how you will never amount to anything, but a sad and lonely girl who says inappropriate things to people.
My brain is like a pushy stage mum. It has these crazy expectations of me, and is constantly putting me under intense pressure, all the while maintaining that this is all for my own good; that it only wants the best for me. And if I just do everything it says, I might possibly become a famous blogger one day.
But its standards are skyscraper high. There is no way I’m not gonna fail.
I’ll write or draw something that I think is completely appropriate for someone of my caliber and skill set. And like a proud toddler, I’ll present my macaroni artwork to my brain….
And my brain will look at it disapprovingly and say something horrible like:
I think my brain probably had a tough childhood and never really learned how to love. Most likely it had its own hopes of stardom crushed at an early age, and is now trying to live out its failed dreams through me.
Whatever it is, my brain is one unreasonable motherfucker. It’s shamefully impatient with me. I can’t even start jotting down ideas without my brain dismissing them as worthless crap. Before I’ve even started sketching, my brain has already decided it’s a waste of paper.
My stage mum brain is causing me sleepless nights. Because it keeps reminding me that it is already Friday, and that I still don’t have next week’s post.
So, I scramble and rush and try to recycle old ideas to present to my brain. But of course my brain can smell my incompetency a mile away.
It’s sitting there, perched on its throne, smoking its pipe, quietly judging me.
And I’ll be all sad and hurt and I’ll hide in bed for the rest of the day while my brain continues to sling abuse at me.
And my heart will feel heavy because I don’t understand how something that is a part of me; something that has known me since I was a fetus, can be so mean to me. I thought we were friends. Friends are meant to support each other no matter what. Why can’t my brain love me the way I am? Why am I never enough?
The more I think about it the angrier I become. I mean, my brain is supposed to be my friend. Why the fuck is it hating on me so much? It’s the ultimate betrayal.
And the longer I think about it, the more I can’t believe I’ve let a fucking organ treat me this way.
Until I become completely and utterly enraged and ready to punch my brain right in the vagina.
And then I’m crying and shouting at my brain. Why do you hate me?? What have I done? Have I not done everything you asked?!
Just love me! Please. Please
And my brain is speechless because I’ve never I confronted it before.
After a long silence. My brain quietly responds
I know brain…but you gotta tone it down. You’re literally making me sick
Brain: I’m sorry
I will never be perfect
Brain: I know
Please just love me
My brain and I still have a long way to go. We’re working out our differences and taking it one day at a time. It’s not easy confronting your brain, but it’s worth it. After 28 years I finally stood up to it and I’m a better person for it.
So there. This post isn’t perfect. But neither am I. And thank God for that.