My therapist tells me that my brain is different than most people's. She says that it sees things differently, bigger. But bigger isn't always better.

Most of the obstacles in my life come from my brain. Seeing the bigger picture, seeing what everyone's thinking (even if it's not real), seeing words and phrases all in my own imagination. I'm afraid of most things and most things produce melancholy for me. That's why I take psychiatric medications.

Recently when I've been lost in thought, hating the way I think, the way my brain works, I daydream, vividly, about reaching into my skull with clawlike fingers and removing the brain. I suppose the brain isn't actually pink like in most picture books. But I'll imagine it is in the daydream, and it's stained with blood. Then I'll set the brain, my brain, on the table and point a gun at it (which makes no sense, I'm too chicken to hold a gun), and shoot it. BANG. Because I don't want it. I don't want this brain.

It holds too much. Too, too much.

The medication helps me overcome it. My therapist helps me overcome it. But it seems to be a much harder journey than I anticipated. An uphill struggle. Perhaps success will come. Perhaps someday I'll measure my success by overcoming the mountainous obstacle that my brain seems to be (really, it's only three pounds or something, but it seems so much larger now). And if that day comes, until that day comes (I have to be positive-- my therapist says so), I'll keep breathing and lightening the load on my brain. Till the day where I don't believe I have to shoot it to relieve the pressure.