Blindsided

Sometimes you can be hit right square in the feels without even expecting it.

So imagine my surprise when, watching Tim Minchin on Netflix earlier with several other housemates, I am listening to a song - and as so often happens with songs, it mentally poleaxes me.

I daresay aforementioned housemates will be reading this and going: I didn't notice any poleaxing. (They might even get in a Polack joke.)

Well, that's because it was mental, you see. And if dealing with anxiety has taught me anything, it is how to prevent mental turmoil from seeking physical output. Well. Anxiety and other stuff.

The song is called Not Perfect. This isn't the specific performance in question, and the lyrics can be slightly altered depending on performance, obviously - but the lyrics that really hit me, like hit me in a shots fired shots fired kind of fashion, are below.

This is my brain, I live in it

It's made of love, and bad song lyrics

It's tucked away behind my eyes

Where all my fucked up thoughts can hide

Because god forbid I hurt somebody

And the weirdest thing about a mind

Is that every answer that you find

Is the basis of a brand new cliche

This is my brain, and it's fine

It's where I spend the vast majority of my time

It's not perfect

But it's mine

It's not perfect

But it's mine

And right now, just thinking about those words kind of has me in bits. Wasn't quite expecting that little ambush.

My love for songs that properly and adequately encapsulate a feeling, concept or situation is tickled by this, for the perhaps obvious reason that it's a rather succinct way to describe how I see my mental state - and hell, probably how most people would...maybe.

Perhaps it's a state of acceptance I need to find with myself. With the cogs and gears inside my skull that guide the big complex bipedal vehicle that I call Me.

Anyway.

It's not perfect.

But it's mine.