Dear Brain, Seriously—What the Hell Now?

Hey brain,

Can we just talk, like straight up? What’s your damn problem again? I thought we were finally chill. Thought we buried the hatchet. You even acted cool for a few weeks. But here you go again, waking me up at 3 AM like some messed up movie director who never got over film school.

For real—what is this?

Not long ago, I was blaming my body for all this night drama. You know, the almost-peeing-the-bed type situations, the weird jerking awake in the middle of a dream where I’m falling or something’s chasing me. But now I get it. It ain't my body. It’s you. You’re the one dragging me through these insane, acid-trip dream episodes every night.

And honestly, I’ve been trying. I’ve been treating myself better lately, in ways I never thought I would. Cut down on drinking yeah, for real. I’m talking no more late-night whiskey sips while bingeing documentaries I forget the next day. I’ve even been exercising again. Not, like, hardcore CrossFit stuff or anything, but enough that my knees creak slightly less than before. Eating veggies. Swapping pizza for salads. Even drinking water, which used to feel like punishment.

And guess what? My body noticed. My stomach doesn’t try to murder me after every meal now. I pee like a regular guy instead of looking like someone poured a Mountain Dew in the toilet. Hell, my back pain’s even chilling a little bit. My body’s out here sending me thank-you notes.

But you? You didn’t get the memo. You're up in your weird tower pulling strings, tossing me the strangest dreams I’ve ever had.

Need proof? Alright. Let’s rewind a bit.

Last week, I dreamt that I was on a cooking show with Gordon Ramsay, but instead of yelling at me for burning the chicken, he turned into a squirrel and challenged me to a dance battle. I don’t even dance, man. I have the coordination of a drunk raccoon. What are we even doing here?

And then there was the dream about Lady Gaga. Me and her at some old-ass amusement park. Outta nowhere, I’m motorboating her boobs. What?? I like Gaga, don’t get me wrong, she’s cool. But I’m not even into that kind of stuff, and definitely not with celebrities I’ve never met. That’s your fantasy? Really?

A few days later, you gave me a nightmare about being stuck on a ski-lift going from Kansas City to Denver. First off, Kansas doesn’t even have mountains. Second, it took like nine hours. The whole time, I’m dangling over wheat fields, holding my breath, sweating through my shirt while some old lady beside me hums “Sweet Caroline.” You got issues, man.

But the worst one? That was last night. I was arm wrestling a shark.

A f*cking shark, bro.

Not in water, either. We were in some sketchy underground fight club. I don’t even know where. Maybe a sewer? The shark had tattoos. Like... prison tattoos. He talked, too. Said if I didn’t beat him, he’d eat me. First of all, sharks don’t have arms. Second, even if they did, I got the upper body strength of a librarian with chronic anxiety. There’s no version of reality where I win that match.

So, like—what the hell are you doing?

You got me waking up in cold sweats, blinking at the ceiling, trying to figure out if I’ve finally gone off the deep end. And here’s the messed up part: these dreams feel real. So real that sometimes I wake up, and for like three full minutes, I’m actually worried there’s a mob of talking sharks waiting outside my bathroom.

I’ve tried everything. Breathing exercises. Calming music. No screen time before bed. Lavender spray. You name it. I even downloaded one of those meditation apps that whispers stuff like “you are a tree” while ocean sounds play in the back. But you? Nah, you just double down. Like I’m some late-night comedy show for your amusement.

Do you hate me or something? Is that it? Or are you trying to tell me something? Because if this is about unresolved childhood trauma or guilt from stealing gum when I was ten, just say it, man. No need to throw me into a dream where I’m being chased by a horse wearing my ex-girlfriend’s face.

I just want sleep. Good, old-fashioned, boring, peaceful sleep. Dreams where I’m walking in a forest or watching rain or literally nothing. Blank screen. That’s all I’m asking for.

So yeah, maybe you’re trying to help. Maybe this is your way of telling me I need to deal with some sh*t. And maybe you’re just bored up there, rolling around in old memories and half-digested thoughts. I don’t know. I just wish you’d go easier on me.

I’m tired, brain. I’m so damn tired.

So how about this: Let’s call a truce. You stop throwing weird-ass dream scenarios at me, and I’ll keep up the healthy stuff. Deal? Just... let me sleep, man. Let me dream of normal stuff, like being late to work or losing my wallet or forgetting to wear pants to school. The classics.

Sincerely, The Rest of Me

And listen, Brain… maybe you ain’t the real enemy here. Maybe you’re just the loudest one in the room when sh\*t gets too quiet. Maybe all these wild dreams are your messed-up way of sayin’ something I keep ignoring while pretending I’ve got it all together.

So yeah, maybe I’m mad, but maybe I also get it now.

You’re not broken. You’re just tired. Confused. Kinda like me.

So let’s make a deal. You try not to throw sharks and haunted sky rides at me every night, and I’ll try to sit with whatever it is you’re screaming about. No more running from my own damn self.

Deal?

Alright then.

Now shut the hell up and let me sleep, please.

Sometimes the loudest chaos in your head is just the soft part of you asking to be heard.

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