A Powerful Force
Sometimes I wonder if I’m making it all up. Sometimes I think you wonder that too.
My biology conspires against me. Stress generates anxiety. Anxiety leads to OCD. OCD inevitably concedes to depression, my inability to create perfection spiraling me down into a state of futility.
You look at me as if trying to witness my biology firsthand. Can it really override the intelligent, seemingly reasonable mind you believe exists behind the angled spectacles?
Nature and nurture merge into a powerful force, overriding my reason, drowning the word “no” before it can even rise from my throat. I take a machete to my life, hacking at commitments. But for each one I sever, two more spring up in its place.
For years there I was, so proud to have conquered my genetics. Resisted the booze, the tobacco, the food.
“Well, what happens, Amanda, is that when we grow up in a stressful environment, our bodies adjust to accommodate the stress. So you get to a point where your body actually craves the chemicals produced by the stress, because that’s what feels normal to you.”
I want to tell her that I’ve never felt normal. That I wouldn’t know normal even if it bit me in the ass.
Instead I recall a recurring dream I have, where I’m driving a car from the passenger’s seat. Somehow the car never crashes, although each moment I think it might. I fear losing control, but I also feel free.