Sirens outside, neurological theatre inside, and the inconvenient discovery that one’s own nervous system has a flair for drama

Observations from a Nervous System with Opinions

It is a truth rarely discussed in polite society that the human brain is an unreliable narrator.

Most brains merely exaggerate things. Mine occasionally stages a full theatrical production.

Sherlock Holmes famously observed that when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. This works splendidly in detective fiction. It works less well when the improbable culprit is one’s own nervous system.

The morning begins innocently enough.

Coffee. Emails. A brief but emotionally charged disagreement with the toaster.

Outside, Israel is doing what Israel does best: functioning with determined normality while someone somewhere is attempting to lob unpleasant objects in our general direction. Sirens come and go. People move toward shelters with the weary competence of commuters who have accepted that stairs are now a lifestyle choice.

We treat it like cardio with geopolitical overtones.

Inside my skull, however, a more private investigation is underway.

There is a sensation that sometimes precedes a seizure. Neurologists call it an aura, which sounds charmingly mystical, like something one might encounter in a yoga studio in Ra’anana.

It is the neurological equivalent of the universe clearing its throat.

One moment, the world behaves normally. Next, the brain emits signals that feel suspiciously like Morse code from a lighthouse operated by someone who has lost the instruction manual.

Something is not quite right.

Bipolar disorder, meanwhile, sits at the table like an eccentric Victorian relative: dramatic, unpredictable, and occasionally inclined to throw the cutlery.

On certain days, the mind gallops forward with manic conviction, entirely certain it could reorganize the legal system, write three essays, and reorganize the kitchen pantry before lunch.

On other days, it looks at a perfectly reasonable email and concludes that civilization itself may be overrated.

Sleep deprivation does not assist matters.

Sirens have a regrettable habit of interrupting the fragile truce between brain chemistry and reality. Running to a bomb shelter at three in the morning is not widely recommended as a neurological stabilization technique, although it does provide ample opportunity to reconsider life choices.

One begins to feel rather like Dr Watson observing Holmes pacing the room in a dressing gown while muttering about clues.

Except Holmes is my nervous system.

And the clues are inconvenient.

There is a faint shimmer at the edge of vision.

The strange electrical tension in consciousness itself.

The uncomfortable suspicion that one’s brain may shortly attempt something theatrical.

At this point, sensible people rest.

Unfortunately, sensible people are not writers.

So instead, like Holmes confronting a baffling case, one gathers evidence.

Exhibit A: exhaustion.

Exhibit B: wartime stress.

Exhibit C: a nervous system with a well-documented enthusiasm for electrical fireworks.

Holmes would advise caution.

Holmes would almost certainly recommend sleep.

Instead, I find myself observing the situation with detached curiosity. There is something oddly academic about watching one’s own mind misbehave. A writer’s brain, even when malfunctioning, insists on taking notes.

Interesting, it murmurs.

This might make a good essay.

Which is how one ends up sitting at a desk, half amused and half exasperated, while the brain conducts its internal drama.

There is a peculiar absurdity to the entire situation.

Outside, a country carries on through sirens and rockets with the stoicism of people who have collectively decided panic is inefficient.

Inside, my neurons appear to be considering interpretive dance.

The contrast is striking.

Israel shrugs and gets on with things.

My nervous system rehearses an opera.

Still, Holmes would remind us that panic rarely solves the case.

I note the warning signs.

I drink water like a responsible mammal.

I glare sternly at my brain and inform it that today would be an extremely inconvenient day to attempt neurological theatrics.

Thus far, the brain has complied.

Which leaves life feeling like one of Holmes’s stranger investigations: a mystery in which the detective, the witness, and the prime suspect all happen to live inside the same skull.

The case, I suspect, remains open.

But the evidence currently suggests the following.

The brain is unreliable.

Sirens are terrible alarm clocks.

And sometimes the only rational response to neurological chaos is to roll one’s eyes at one’s own nervous system and carry on.

Holmes, I suspect, would approve.

But then again, Holmes never had to run down three flights of stairs in the middle of the night while his brain considered staging a coup.

And if he had, I suspect even the great detective might have reached the same conclusion I did this morning:

The enemy is not always outside the house.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)