Mental illnesses are rough. I mention this believing I have at least one, but have never been officially diagnosed. That may be due to the fact that I have never actually been tested for one. I do not believe that any of my unofficially undiagnosed mental illnesses are cause for any real concern, in fact I believe everybody is afflicted with a mental illness or two of their own. On a road trip, it becomes fairly easy to pinpoint the mentally ill.
Filling the dashboard of your car with a bunch of tiny, stuffed animals for example, is definitely a sign of mental illness. Always being in a hurry whether you have somewhere important to be or not, causing the blood to boil, evaporating every ounce of patience is another, potentially more serious form of mental illness. People that are oblivious to their surroundings and carry on as if their action, or lack thereof, has a domino effect on others around them, like driving slowly in the passing lane, has got to be a sign of a mental illness and it is likely that these are the same people that stand in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store while all of the impatient people, blood beginning to boil and no real reason to be in a hurry, attempt to go around them, in vain.
Only being able to focus on details without the capability to see the bigger picture is a mental illness. Seeing the big picture without the ability to look at the finer details is a also a mental illness. Convincing yourself that you go on a big family vacation for a unique personal experience in the absence of variation is definitely a form of mental illness.
This morning I sit with the morning coffee watching the waves roll onto shore from our comfortable hotel room. This morning I sit with the morning coffee watching the repetition of the same event, the very same event that has occurred for thousands of years, without interruption, lacking much variation. This Florida vacation resort has thousands of rooms with thousands of people hoping to find their own version of a unique, personalized experience on their family vacations, staying in a comfortable hotel room identical to everyone else's comfortable hotel room, drinking the same single serving morning coffee, looking at the same pattern of waves crashing onto the Atlantic shoreline.
My doing Jazz Hands every day has got to be a form of mental illness. Although one could make the argument that Jazz Hands could also be a form of therapy, but I'll leave room for the possibility that it can be considered the cause, the symptom and the cure of my unique, personalized mental illness. My awareness and intent may be the only indication of sanity in this case. If it becomes routine, lacking day to day variation and becomes a mere muscle memory habit, then it is definitely an illness, for sure. If it becomes a mindless act, oblivious to meaning, if it is only a big picture act, disregarding the finer details, if it focuses on the finer details only, abandoning the big picture altogether, the royal Jazz Hands lost, then hope for sanity is gone.
It is our responsibility to find variation and meaning even where it is difficult to find. Our unique, personal experience awaits us, even in this world of routine. We must find the rhythm in the sequences and patterns.
Just because we see the same waves crashing on the Atlantic shoreline, doesn't necessarily mean that we all see the same waves crashing on the Atlantic shoreline in the same way. Embrace your mental illnesses. Just don't do it slowly from the passing lane, please.
Today's Jazz Hands crashed onto shore. Today's Jazz Hands crashed onto shore. Today's Jazz Hands crashed onto shore.
Day eighty-five complete.
Day eighty-five complete.
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