sábado, 22 de enero de 2011

My hypothalamus versus the other's


I just can't wear everything, never could. If shirts are not made of cotton they itch me to a point where I cannot bend my arms and legs. I carefully have to unpick the tag sewed in them because it scratches me the back of my neck and I feel as if I were sleeping on a cactus and I have to wear the shirts inside out because the seams are like needles drilling into my skin. This is something I carry around since childhood. My mother's dilemma always was: is this going to make him itch?

The diagnosis by an American doctor was: Mild autism

- That's why the boy is not capable to show his feelings. That's why he just can't hug, that's why he doesn't talk much and when he wants to, he stutters. Probably he's full of feelings he is not able to transmit and this problem normally manifests through the trouble caused by clothes. Another way it is manifested is when he doen't get to the point when he is trying to tell a story. He goes backwards too much, understand? And we, Americans, like to get to the point...Now, the most bothersome symptom is his obsession with details. If you are scolding the boy for some reason and if, by any chance, you happen to have a pimple in your nose, the boy can be so attracted to your pimple that he can reflect the whole world on the tip of your nose. The sound of everything will turn off, even his own voice and possibly even his own language may become a foreign one.

The diagnosis of a Spanish doctor was:
- His hypothalamus is burnt.

Neither of both cases offered me an effective solution. As an autistic person, I could overcome my communicative problems in some way but if it turned out that my thalamus was burnt...how could I restore it? Furthermore, what the hell was the hypothalaums? Sounded great. I googled it.
Hypothalamus: Endocrine gland which is part of the diencephalon and it is located below the thalamus. It liberates at least nine hormones which act as inhibitors or stimulators. It is normally considered the integrating center of the nervous vegetative system.

But, of course, that was the definition of somebody with a sane hypothalamus. In my case, I should read it like this:

My hypothalamus: Shattered endocrine gland which is part of the diencephalon's ashes and it is located below the thalamus' ruins. It liberates, at least, nine hormones that send them to fuck off and normally acts as inhibitors or stimulators. It is considered the center of  blown up vegetative system.

The Spanish doctor summed up for me the hypothalamus' functions:
- Let's see, to say it simple (that is the way he saw me) we all feel troubled by a tag shirt, as well as many other troubles. The hypothalamus is in charge of nullifying these discomforts. It filtrates them and you just stop feeling them. As your hypothalamus is not working properly it doesn't filtrate shit and you complain about the tags referred to as "nails".

As my hypothalamus is burnt or I suffer from mild autism, as I don't get to the freaking point and I'm not able to express my feelings what I wanted was not exactly all this but some other thing.

What I really wanted to write about is what I've heard at the bus today.
I had this retarded guy sitting in the two-sits row in front of me- The seat beside him was free. He saw a friend and started to wave his arm in the air, making him signs to be seen. At the beginning I couldn't see his friend and had a slight suspicion he was calling nobody at all. I thought that the effusive waving arm was a sign of his retarded mind. The guy raised his arm and shook it with his five fingers wide open in front of the stuffed crowd at the exit door. In Greece that is considered an insult.

I was wrong. There was a friend in the crowd that saw him and walked towards him with a smile. He sat beside him and started talking about his waving hand:

- I say your hand.
- Yes, I was calling you.
- Hands are nice.
- They are.

When he said "hands are nice" I got to the conclussion that the guy was not retarded, he just had the burnt hypothalamus.  
To understand my conclusion we have to recreate the same scene but with guys with a fresh hypothalamus. One calls the other, the other smiles at him, he feels that hands are nice, he walks towards him, take a seat and the rest goes the same. The difference between a burnt thalamus and a sane one is that the first one realized that "hands were nice", while in the other case, the same feeling was filtrated by the fucking thalamus.

So, what's wrong? The hypothalamus fucks everything just like antibiotics?

To tell you the truth, I felt happy to have it burnt. I don't want it to filter the "nice hands", nor the beautiful fold black guys have at the back of their neck, nor the characteristic way Wirka has to cover her eyes when she is worried. All that beauty of details (which, yes, can interfere the absurd thread of life) is an eclosion of feelings that I constantly translate by watching people. And if I happen not to have this hypothalamus or I lost it during some war, better leave it as it is.

The two friends kept on with their conversation, skipping from one subject to another, maybe with the purpose of finding a subject they both enjoyed.

- Christmas will be here soon.
- Yeah.
- Christmas is more of a child thing.
- Right, a child thing.
- Gifts and all.
- ... (giggles)
- As grown-ups we have the lottery...Christmas lottery, you know?
- I don't care about that.
- Don't you?
- Nah.
- What would you do if you won many millions?
The other guy shuddered.
- You don't know?
- No.

I wonder what organ or gland is in charge of everything you don't give a shit about, especially the rotten money. Obviously, the guy had that organ or gland burnt too. As soon as we know it, it would be interesting to have it removed from all of us.


5 comentarios:

  1. ¿Traducido al ingles?
    Podías haberlo puesto debajo del otro post.¿no crees?.
    ¿Hay que escribirte los comentarios en inglés? :(
    Bueno, pues entonces.
    Amazing,brilliant, wonderful, great.

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  2. Upps! perdón no me había dado cuenta que es otro blog :(

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  3. El miembro anónimo que tu dices soy yo :(
    Algo le sucede a mi blog, que últimamente si me hago seguidora me sale la imagen sin foto, creo que voy a tener que formatear mi pc...o algo he tocado sin querer que tiene que ver con Blogger. Asi que no te rayes.¿Quien es Karl?...
    Gute Nacht
    Te lo diré en alemán que eso si que me lo se ;)

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  4. jaja cari, qué te pasa en la boca? jajaaj

    Te vas a lanzar entonces, al mercado inglés? serán capaces de entender tú humor esos tuberculosos? Cari, si total hoy hay eso de traducir el blog al idioma que se quiera, no? Te vas a meter en un berengenal, creo, jaaja. desde luego yo seguiré leyendote en castellano salvo que hagas algún dia la versión en gallego, jajaaj


    Bezos.

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  5. Hola, hoy me di cuenta que tenía pendiente una visita a tu casa y entro a conocerte.
    Un abrazo desde Sevilla.

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