“Let me tell you a story. A story of
the day I learned I was special.”
….
“And so, dolphins and whales are
conscious breathers.”
Samantha raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Lanza, what does that mean?”
Mr. Lanza smiled at his sixth grade
biology students, who, he realized, were having a spot of difficulty
understanding an attribute they themselves did not possess.
“Would anyone like to help Sam?” he
asked patiently.
He watched the classroom carefully,
pleasantly and finally noticed Jonas, an unusually quiet, inelegant,
yet enthusiastic student, seemingly engaged in an internal struggle.
Normally hasty in his recitation of an answer, Jonas was battling a
soulful torment.
Normally circumspect around hesitant
students, Mr. Lanza was so intrigued by this development, that
without intending too, a whispered “Jonas” slipped from between
his lips. A crash followed his momentary error, and the whole class,
even those previously in a state of apathetic unconsciousness,
observed Jonas rising from the floor where he'd collapsed. Standing
beside the upturned desk he said rushedly, eyes staring straight at
the ground as if drawn by the force of gravity, “It means they have
to think to breath. They have to actively decide to breathe. They
have to think, 'breathe' and then they breathe.”
“Exactly right, Jonas, though those
three answers were redundant.”
Mr. Lanza prepared to continue onward,
uncovering new treasures for his students to discover and explore,
when he realized Jonas was still standing, but with a transformed
bearing. When Mr. Lanza looked at him, their eyes met, and he could
not turn away from Jonas' determined gaze.
“Mr. Lanza,” said Jonas, “Are
there any other animals, beside dolphins and whales, which are
conscious breathers?”
“That,” replied Mr. Lanza, “is an
exceptional mind you've got there, and an intriguing question.
That's the sort of inquiry worthy of research. Everyone, for
tomorrow, conduct a search to see if there are, or ever were other
conscious breathers, or write a one page paper, imagining what life
would be like if one compell the lungs to functions.”
….
Imagine, he'd asked us. I didn't need
to. I'd been living with this problem all my life.
No, that isn't quite right. I can
remember a time when I didn't suffer this affliction, but don't
recall when it began.
I can apprehend your difficulty. You,
the reader, just like my classmates in sixth grade, can't comprehend
the extent of my disability. The written word is the source of this
miscommunication between us. When communicating by written word a
facet is neglected, the simple act I perform every three seconds
draws my attention, distracts, and detracts from my ability to
interact with the world around me. Do you know, the average human
breathes twelve to eighteen times per minute, with three point three
seconds to five seconds between each breath? For the last three two
years I've chosen to regulate my breathe toward the faster end of the
spectrum, as a safety precaution, but I wasn't always this way.
During my teenage years I rebelled, tried to control it, modulate it,
and breath every six seconds. It was an experiment which ended in
capitulation to my condition.
….
“Jonas, wake up, wake up Jonas,” a
vague shrilling shriek draws me out of a pervading warmth which
rapidly devolves into an arctic chill, like being rescued from a
frozen lake. I feel tight and loopy at the same time, and
“You're blue Jonas, Jonas, your
not breathing...”
She continues on,
but I her words have explained my situation and I remedy it
immediately. Of course, in the dark, comfy in my bed, only a mother
would notice a lack of lack of movement in the chest. She's still
hysterical, but I'm already beyond her overwrought ravings, and
resetting my internal safeguards, and repeating, silently, breathe.
Though I need to think to breathe, I've been able to sleep, by
tenaciously maintaining a fragment of consciousness. I briefly
console her, before turning over to sleep.
….
I need remind you again of the everyday
difficulties this penalty inflicts. My writing is easily read, it
doesn't convey the haltingness with which it was typed.
Communicating in a face to face conversation is an incredible
challenge. Though no one knows my malady, those who've talked to me,
will describe my distraction, my stumbling speech. It's because
breathe every sentence breath comes out of my mouth breath with the
…. and the me writing this sentence has already forgotten its
purpose, where it began and its proposed outcome.
The other day I called customer service
person from my local internet provider. I bet you despise these
tedious, frustrating calls, but imagine trying to assemble the
inanity, while a single word clangs repeatedly through the mind, like
a personal, internal ambulance siren.
….
“Hello sir, what may I do for you
today?”
“I'd like to call, breath, about my
latest bill.”
“Let me, breathe, bring that up for
you, breath, what is your social, breathe, security number, address,
breathe, phone number, and, breathe, account number?”
“Could you repeat, breathe, those for
me, just, breathe, one at a time?”
You see, not only does my disorder
affect my ability to speak, but to discern the speech of others.
Part of me, can see it in my sleep, the
seven letters, I repeat endlessly, lit up like a neon sign, framed by
a void of blackness. Do you want to understand? It's safer to
ignore my ravings, but if you're inclined, take out a piece of paper,
(or a a keyboard and a word processing unit, which ever is easier),
and compose the six sentences about your day, with only one rule,
every time you breathe you have to write that as well. Do it!
You'll have noticed two things (and if
you haven't I'll pick them up, and bring them closer so you can
properly perceive them). One, the first time you do this exercise,
you probably didn't notice every time you breathed. If there is more
than a few words between each “breath” you know you, messed up.
But if you're unlucky, you'll get a true glimpse into my hell. A
friend who tried this exercise couldn't rid themselves of the
feeling. They said, they felt as if they had been transformed into a
conscious breather.
And perhaps that's why I tell my story.
For I am lonely, as few are (though we are all lonely in our own
way), and like all creatures seek company. And so, I seek to create
others like me, to create a community, to which I can belong.
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