Everything spirals out of control.
I feel so out of control.
When I wake up, I am still on the floor, and my entire body is aching. Most of all, my head throbs.
Black Matter has curled into a ball on my bag, a carefully chosen spot where she does not touch me. I know she loves that bag, so I slip it off in the most awkward manner by rolling over the floor and out crawling of the shoulder strap, so I don’t have to move her.
Then I get up.
It’s 2.30 in the morning.
I am so far out of the controlled structure that I fell unwell from it. Moreso, a jittery sensation lingers in my stomach. No water or food helps, and it stays with me for the entire night and following day, especially the moment I step onto university grounds. Rationally, I know the man is gone now, arrested. But fear doesn’t acknowledge rational thinking, because it is activated in different regions of the brain.
Thursday comes, and I haven’t slept properly in two days.
Most of all, I am dreading the lecture on Introduction to Behavioral Neuroscience, because it was where it first started. Although I booked a different room now, I still can’t shake the sensation of dread.
My heart beats up into my throat when I enter the building housing the Hamilton lecture rooms. I walk all the way up to the 603.
When I reach the wooden door, I pause for a moment to calm my nerves. I don’t want everyone to see that I'm still struggling. I can’t let anyone think there's something wrong with me. My entire life, others thought I was different, strange, the weird know-it-all, and I won't tolerate students questioning me or thinking badly of me.
I am Jane McKenzie. Youngest professor appointed at Columbia. I got the Fellowship. I am?—
“Are you alright?” interrupts me a voice from behind in my self-talk. I turn. Amelie Degard. I now see her close up for the first time. She has the darkest brown eyes I have ever seen.
Maybe she’s a vampire,says a voice in my head, and I almost snort. I just rewatched my favorite vampire show for the twentieth time because it brings me comfort. Predictable action, and a release from the realm of reality. I look at her skin. Perfect and even, almost too perfect. My eyes wander to her lips; they are rosy and full, and?—
“Are you alright?” she asks again, and I catch myself staring at her for the entire time with a slightly parted mouth. What the hell am I doing here? I am out of control. Everything is out of control.
I need to get back in control. I need distance.
“Yes, fine,” I say harshly, and I draw a step back, unable to stop my T. rex arms from snapping in front of my chest.
This can’t be happening!I shout at myself in my head.
“You don’t look fine,” she says.
“I am fine,” I say robotically. “Get inside, the lecture is about to start.”
I will not have a student mess with me. I am the professor after all. Would she speak to a 65-year-old man like that? No. She thinks she can do it with me, because I am young and a woman, and she a rich girl who never had a boundary set—that’s what it is. And with that, I enter the lecture room.
I am Jane McKenzie, after all.
“Alright, everyone,” I begin. “I know the events have taken a toll on us all, but let us try to move on. It doesn’t do well to linger in the past. Interestingly enough, the brain cannot distinguish between reality happening and something we imagine—meaning, when our thoughts linger on the same thing over and over again, we are able to consolidate and reinforce those neural pathways into creating, and re-creating the same set of physical and emotional reactions to those experiences all over again. There is evidence that those experiences can change the neuroplasticity of our brains, alter our perception, and affect not only our nervous system but also our immune system, hormonal levels, and every other system in our body. Which leads us to our topic of behavioral neuroscience for today.”
My eyes wander over the students as I check in on how they are doing, only to find the rich girl has her hand up in the air—again.
I swallow, sigh silently, and then say, “A question, Miss Degard?” I am mildly annoyed by her. She somehow seems to seek closer contact, and I don’t like it at all.
“Yes, Professor,” she says quite eagerly. “The Alvaro Pascual-Leone piano experiment, where he found that participants were able to change their motor cortex function by simply rehearsing playing the piano mentally on almost the same level as those who played physically…Same with the Hamilton one—If neuroplasticity is that responsive to directed thought, just likeyou said, is the rehearsal of negative reactions to experiences, why isn’t it widely used? Because wouldn’t the logical extension suggest conditions like depression are addressable through such?—“
She stops mid-sentence. While I am utterly impressed by her knowledge, I am certain there is something about her that makes me wary. She should not be able to ask questions like this. She is a freshman. Unless, of course, she is more like me than I would like her.
There is only one way to find out.
“You have answered your own question,” I say. “Think about what you said. The Pascual-Leone experiment focused on changes in themotor cortex.”
“Depression isn’t a motor function issue,” she says. “I know. But wouldn’t it be worth exploring whether it could? Depression causes a change in neurotransmitter regulation, yes? Affected by the regulation of hormonal distribution. You just said the repetition and reaction on the re-creation of the experiences can alter hormonal and other systems, which made me wonder if CBT, for example, could actually worsen symptoms of depression because it constantly rehearses the past experiences?”
