My Thoughts Are Poisoning Me

I am buried deep deep down beneath this mass of thoughts. I’m right down at the bottom of a well, right down at the bottom of a ‘thought-well’, as it were. Only I’m not well. I’m not at all well. Do you think all those thoughts make me well? Is there any wellness in the thoughts that I am always thinking? The thoughts I think and think and keep on thinking. Is there any wellness in the thought-well? Of course there’s isn’t but that doesn’t stop me thinking. The worse I feel the more I think and my thoughts are slowly poisoning me. Thoughts are my unwellness. They are my sickness – the sickness of thinking…

 

I am sick with my thinking and I am also sick of it. So sick of it. Here’s another thought, and another, and another. All of this is just more thinking to throw on the pile. So that I can bury myself all the deeper. Why not? I went to see my GP the other day and I told him how bad I was feeling. ‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘I’m feeling terrible. I’m feeling absolutely awful – I’ve caught the sickness of thinking and I don’t think anything can cure me’. That’s a joke by the way. In case you didn’t spot it. Though I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t – my jokes tend to be rather dry these days. Dehydrated jokes – just add water and stand back. I’m the dehydrated man and I’m coughing out clouds of dust. As I laugh. A man goes to see his doctor, doctor doctor he says you’ve got to help me I keep thinking that I’m a pair of curtains well says the doctor have you tried CBT? A few sessions should fix that for you… Another man comes into the clinic a few minutes later on doctor doctor he blurts out you’ve got to help me I keep on trying to do CBT on myself and its driving me mad, it’s driving me stone mad pure mad as mad as a rat I don’t what to do I don’t know how to stop it well says the doctor have you tried CBT? We could try to arrange a few sessions for you. That’ll sort you out in a jiffy…

 

I’m down at the bottom of a deep deep well. The sky above me is the size of a two cent piece – it bobs around crazily, over here one minute, over there the next. It’s like the reflection of the moon in a pond. Sometimes I think that I’m imagining it – the tiny circle of sky floats around mockingly like a defect in my vision. Maybe it actually is a two cent piece. Or maybe it is only a figment of my imagination. Like everything else down here at the bottom of the thought-well. I can feel the crushing weight of the thinking that’s stacked up above me. The sheer oppressive brutal weight of it is giving me no space to breathe. I’m suffocating down here. There’s no air down here at the bottom of the thought-well. There’s nothing down here but rancid congealed misery. Like coal. You could mine it, create a whole industry out of it. Little dwarves could mine it. An army of homunculi.

 

It’s as foetid as hell down here, it occurs to me. It is hell – it’s the hell of my own thinking. I’m stuck in the hell of my own thinking, I think dismally, a renewed and re-intensified burst of self-inflicted misery suddenly hitting me. And that’s just another thought to throw on top of the thought-pile…

 

 

 

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