I spend a lot of time making metaphors for the state of my head in custody of a lax thyroid.  A desk next to an open window.  I no longer have a homeless mind.  I can tuck things away in the back of my mind and retrieve them later.

I might be fixated on it because it’s been a recent problem. I could be trying to render my problem literary as opposed to clinical to change its balance so it rests more comfortably in my hand. I am comfortable with metaphors.  I could be trying to emphasize the extent of the problem, and maybe I’m trying to find a way draw attention or sympathy that is more dignified or more subtle than, I was ill and my illness damaged my ability to remember and think.

It may also be a way to guard against the real, clinical consequences of describing oneself as ill – especially (arguably) mentally ill.  This is a way of strengthening the impression – and describing the severity of a subtle problem – without resorting to clinical language that might implicate me as mentally ill.

I may also be attempting to establish mastery in the face of scrutiny from medicine.  This past week, I found a doctor through student health and got a blood test.  Based on past experience with medical professionals – I’ve paraphrased it as, “Your levels are fine: go home,” I was a little bit worried that my doctor would take my medication away, either on the grounds that I had no problem or that my problem wasn’t serious enough to merit a supplement.  And so I was afraid that my mind would lose its home.  I may have been trying to convey the effect of hypothyroidism, in a way subjective enough to preempt my doctor’s decision that I was not hypothyroid by the numbers.

I may also be trying to demonstrate clarity – by displaying eloquence, acknowledging the extent of the deficit, and contrasting it with my current alacrity.


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