Anatomy

The terms superficial and deep are strictly confined to
descriptions of the relative depth from the surface of the various structures; external
and internal are reserved almost entirely for describing the walls of
cavities or of hollow viscera. In the case of the limbs the words proximal
and distal refer to the relative distance from the attached end of the
limb.

–from the introduction to Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body, 1918

Why is it that the human body can heal itself, but the mind cannot?

Consider this. Tissue wrapped around tissue stretched across solid bone. The
chambers of the heart, the walls of the arteries, the ligaments around the
joints. Consider the skin across the face, the unique flesh of the fingertips
of six billion and counting, no repetition. A cigarette kisses the back of the
hand, distorting cells and tissue, and the body burns. A letter’s edge bites
the palm that holds it, slicing the skin open neatly. A knife forces itself
into an arm, parting muscle, chipping bone. Consider the unconscious healing,
the automatic revival of cells. Reconnection, reassembly, reiteration of
biological formulas that simply put you back together, given enough time.

Now consider the brain. The thick ball of wound up wires. The Gordian organ
that is bigger on the inside than it appears to be from without. The frontal
lobe, the synapses between neurons, the enzymes and the inhibitors. The unique
layers and coils of six billion and counting, no repetition. A parent or
sibling dies, distorting routine and emotions, and the mind burns. A friend
bites back at the palm that once held theirs, slicing confidence neatly. A lost
lover forces themselves into the unconscious, parting veils, chipping away at
memory. Consider the absolute lack of healing, the stubborn refusal of the mind
to rejuvenate its cells. Rejection, retrogression, reiteration of psychological
fears that simply pull you apart, given enough time.

Consider the fact that the two components of your body that do not heal are the
one that feels pain and the one that remembers pain.

This same mind, this same imagination machine that discovered pi and wrote Hamlet
and designed the Hagia Sophia is given a thousand menial tasks a second. It
corresponds objects to their names, measures distance and deciphers color,
reminds you to breathe. And it is because of these menial tasks that the mind
must operate according to strict procedures. To save time, effort, to maintain
efficiency, it must reject nonessential information the senses feed it, it must
condition itself to react according to previous situations, it must associate
names with faces, faces with memories, memories with emotions, and for this
reason, we are torture victims, subjected to pain over and over again when the
corresponding stimuli are present. A photograph of an old house that falls out
of a book. A love letter in the pocket of an old coat. An uninvited song on the
jukebox.

Even worse than these complex creations, these human constructs, are nature’s
triggers, prevalent and public: the scent of cold fur, the taste of saliva, the
sound of fruit falling to the ground. Something so obvious and unstoppable that
it resets the mind, warps time and space, resumes the pain, the loss, the fear
of that moment and keeps rewinding and replaying until you can physically
shudder or clench your fist or rub your eyes or run yourself so ragged and
exhausted that the injury is ignored in favor of a more primal routine of
physical replenishment and survival. But the mind never heals these wounds,
only distracts itself from them, hides them. There may be mental bandages and
psychological poultices, but these only cover the injury; what’s underneath
still achingly churns and slowly bleeds soul.

Imagine an athlete with a broken ankle walking down the street. Imagine a boy
who’s been in a car accident, a hundred cuts across his forearms from shattered
windshield glass, standing in line for a movie. Imagine a woman with a domestic
violence-induced bruise discoloring the right side of her face picking up a
phone. Imagine these wounds, these aberrations of tissue and membranes never
healing. Imagine the cells refusing to duplicate and replace, the body refusing
to provide the necessary chemicals. Imagine having a black eye for the rest of
your life. This is what’s happening inside of our heads. And though the
man with the broken ankle will be able to walk normally again, though the car
wreck boy’s arms will turn smooth again, though the abused wife’s complexion
will turn an even white again, the mental twin of that physical injury won’t
fade or, as a doctor might say, “come along nicely.” They will always carry
with them the lost opportunity of that playoff game, the isolated fear of that
car crash, the dry regret of ever allowing that man to…

There is the term emotional scars. There is the idea of a broken
heart. The phrase sick, twisted mind has entered our vocabulary. We
insist on trying to classify the brain as just another part of the body, as if
it could be sprained or paralyzed. But a body never has to question itself. A
lung never has to get away for a few days, an ear never has to just pull itself
together, a heart never has to be by itself for a while, or, at least, the
organ we call the heart. We even attempt to use the same process to fix
problems of the body and mind: therapy. Rehabilitation begins with
re-education. But what succeeds with the body—brute force and repetition, the
flexing of muscles, the sweat that coats the PT wards—these are just quick
fixes in the analyst’s office. You may get something off your chest, but it
won’t take the load off your mind.

But there is something that can save you or destroy. There is a point at which
both the brain and the body can be approached as one and the same: tolerance.
Resistance. Immunity. No pain, no gain, they say. Muscles are defined through
exercise, constant movement forward, building, stretching, capable of more.
Your body can get used to pain. It can become just another stimulus on a list
of nonessentials: the sound of the television upstairs, the touch of your hair
on your neck, the familiar smell of yourself. You can embrace the pain, the
regret, the harsh reality of what actually happened, and memorize the memory
until it means as much to you as a penny Abe-side down on the ground. This can
work; it can relieve mild heartache for 8-12 hours a day. Or it can ruin you,
sterilize your daydreams, neuter your drive for love.

Six billion and counting, no repetition. Why is that?