Mind Tricks
Left-brained or right-brained, you can't fight your DNA
I can think of at least three people off the top of my head who could fall off the face of the planet tomorrow, and I wouldn’t care.
Maybe I’m in a mood for vengeance, but this could also be my default state. Perhaps we’ll find out definitively in a few days.
I have a doctor appointment later this week with a geneticist to do a deep dive into my DNA. This is the second time I’ve been advised to meet with one of these people, who apparently aren’t necessarily M.D.s, but simply smart enough to interpret your genetic report [and tell you how you might die].
I’ve run my raw DNA data through report generators in the past (after regaining ownership of it from one of those companies that has since gone bankrupt). While I’m not a doctor, there have been a few things I can garner from the results that continue to live rent-free in my mind.
I am very predisposed to bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and personality disorders. I have a few of those nailed down at this point in my life, but a lot of what I read makes me wish my family had taken their mental health more seriously (and I’m sure I’m not alone in my sentiment). For instance, my mother has gone her entire life in denial of most of her mental illness—all of which resulted in the Complex PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder I now have to unravel in my adult life. However, how many of the other conditions in my DNA report would also show up in hers? What would have happened if she had cared to seek diagnoses and treatment? In the grand scheme of things, it may not have made a seismic shift in the outcome of my life, but some information is always better than none. Perhaps I would’ve had direction to give the mental health professionals who have diagnosed me and prescribed medication over the years.
The primary reason I decided to accept the referral for a geneticist, though, was to help my primary care physician get a better idea of what needs to be screened (Again, some information is always better than none). At the top of my report is atrial fibrillation, for example. I’ve known that I’ve had heart problems since I was a child, despite several tests coming up negative. Maybe now, someone will start taking me seriously.
Because I’ve always intuitively been aware of these internal flaws, however, I didn’t find that list of my top risk factors to be particularly fear-inducing. Truthfully, I will likely light up a cigarette after I walk out of the geneticist’s office later this week, if only for one last hurrah. It’s the mental risk factors, specifically, that have been keeping me up at night.
Increased risk of suicide.
Cognitive impairment linked to the risk of schizophrenia.
Verbal impairment due to bipolar risk.
Lack of empathy while under stress.
In the way in which I recognize the internal flaws of my heart and lungs, I am also acutely aware of these aspects of my brain.
I didn’t need this genetics report to confirm that I objectively weigh the consequences of suicide more frequently than the average person. I hardly needed the analysis to spell out my lack of empathy in situations involving people I care about; in fact, I feel like I was simply outed by this data.
I’ve known for most of my life that I have the mental capacity to neatly compartmentalize my feelings in order to get what I want or need. It just so happens that, up to this point, I’ve made sure what I want and need is not outright harmful to other people.
My ability to direct my brain from its natural instincts has never been lost on me. I’d argue it had to become a way of life, and one I certainly don’t regret up to this point. I can’t say I’ve ever found myself wishing I had gotten even with a person or caused irreversible damage. Instinctively or not, though, we’ve all done it.
Declined a party invitation and changed the way the invitee feels about you.
Split up from a person we no longer found to be a suitable match after seemingly a lifetime together.
Left someone waiting with bated breath, only to never appear, eliminating any chance of a future.
How morally unacceptable is it when I slip up and subconsciously carry out such behavior? What if I hadn’t been spending this whole time fighting my brain’s instincts, maliciously hurting people without remorse? It’s only when I start to pose these hypothetical questions that I begin to realize that my potential to carry out actual evil in this world is very real. I might not be able to fully explain why my brain hasn’t gone off the rails just yet and landed me in the history books for something vile. Knowing it hasn’t happened, though, upon realizing I couldn’t care less about certain people makes me appreciative of my healthy cerebral cortex.
