PEOPLE SUFFERING FROM CLINICAL DEPRESSION tend to be a bit incredulous when the doctor informs them that their symptoms might stem from a chemical imbalance in parts of the brain linked to emotion and reward. Speaking for myself, it took a while to come around to the idea that my own decade-long struggle with depression could be the result of a measly chemical imbalance. Antidepressant meds got me back on track and I began doing some research on my own which, together, opened the door to a fresh outlook on life in general and a brand new perspective. I slowly began to grasp the implications behind the fact that how we perceive and respond to the world around us is based on the proper distribution of key signaling molecules—that is, neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine; organic compounds synthesized in our gut (of all places). But wait! This meant that my sense of reality is based entirely on chemistry! Which seemed outlandish, at least at first; so removed from my experience of the everyday world. But now, after years spent getting a good solid handle on microbiology, I know that our very being is contingenton routine cellular activities—on untold numbers of staggeringly complex, frenzied proceedings that take place without cease in each of our sixty-trillion-odd cells. Up to and including that final breath.
A basic grasp of brain chemistry got me thinking about some curious attributes of human consciousness—one of them being our unsung, under-appreciated power to at least partially bury memories of terrible events. While it can often lead to problems farther down the road, memory suppression allows us to leave past trauma and torment behind; to move through and beyond the crippling grief of losing a loved one. Otherwise, how could we go on? Our sadness would consume us.
As incredible as this may seem, our ability to repress painful memories is, like other forms of emotional response, a direct function of neurotransmitter activity in the prefrontal cortex. Think of it.
The same goes for one another unique feature of our humanity: the capacity to experience an inscrutable emotion we call awe. The sheer ablility to stand before something and feel unbridled, slack-jawed amazement is one of those things we tend to take as a given, without ever pausing to consider what it might stem from. In any case, being able to feel awed is another one of those distinctly human attributes that has to be buffered through some form of chemical intervention—out of simple bio-necessity. And why would that be? Well, if not somehow kept in check, we’d see everything as through the eyes of a newborn babe. The world would continually be new to us. Clearly, this wouldn’t do; walking out the door to go pick up a few groceries would often result in not making it as far as the sidewalk. Sunlight illuminating the veins in a tree’s delicate leaves, say, or some leggy insect resting on an open flower would be more than enough to induce a state of rapt wonder, complete with sappy grin, some giggling…maybe even a tear or two. Everyone would continually be late for work. We’d miss appointments, walk into oncoming traffic, forget to feed the dog.
One thing I’ve learned during thirty-plus years of studies focused, very specifically, on Life-as-phenomenon: human consciousness remains an utter enigma—a nut that some top-flight scientists believe will never be cracked. To be sure, neuroscience has seen spectacular advances in recent decades (think cognitive psychology, brain imaging, and the mapping of neural circuits to name just a few). But consider this: there’s a widespread belief among lay people that most if not all scientific disciplines are more advanced than they actually are. The current state of neuroscience being a perfect example. In truth, and in spite of all the buoyant claims made by science writers and podcasters, much of what we know about the brain and how it works is incomplete or provisional. There will doubtless be surprising developments in coming years, a number of them completely unforeseen. Some of these findings will eclipse or overturn current views. I mention all this because it’s important to understand that, when it comes to the human brain, we’re in the-more-we-learn-the-less-we-know territory.
If I’m right in my surmises about the connection between brain chemistry and perception, I expect that neuroscientists working in the field of childhood development will, in the not-too-distant future discover something along these lines: Starting around the age of fourteen months, a genetically predetermined influence involving the allocation of neurotransmitters begins to censor inputs into a toddler’s burgeoning sensory systems. The upshot being that, right around the time a child is taking its first steps, the measured introduction of a neurochemical cocktail begins to have a dampening effect on its five rapidly developing senses, thus quelling further unconstrained responses to the miracle of Creation. The object? To forestall constantly being diverted by sensorial “shiny objects.” From an evolutionary-fitness standpoint this is a good thing, allowing the human animal to focus on, shall we say, more important matters. (Such as: Keep busy! Get those jobs done!) (Or, once upon a time, Watch out for big cat!) Similar to constructive forgetfulness, this sophisticated neurological adjustment in early childhood cuts out superfluous distractions, increasing each individual’s chances of reaching reproductive age. And thereby helping insure the survival of our species as a whole.
All of us come into this world with physical, mental, and social shortcomings along with a few other nonstandard features. My own list includes myopia, gum disease, and an iffy back along with this rather unfortunate flaw: one of those multipurpose sensory filters never developed in full and, as a result, I can scarcely tolerate any number of trivial annoyances—things that other people either tune out or don’t even notice. Then there’s the indiscriminate crankiness that comes with finding myself unable (or unwilling) to stomach many aspects of modern life. Like everyone else, I was born with a more or less fixed temperament and my own zesty array of baked-in quirks. I inherited from my mother’s side of the family a propensity to ponder and brood. For a natural-born pragmatic realist, chronic pessimism comes with the territory and is my cross to bear. Another central feature of my mental make-up: a pervasive undercurrent of sorrow, reflecting my longstanding generalized disappointment in the human race.
On the lighter side, I was very fortunate to have been born with several priceless gifts: Insatiable curiosity. A natural a love of nature and deep appreciation for all things beautiful. I enjoy being alone, am very easily entertained, and have never known boredom. In spite of my unremitting sunny pessimism, these more life-affirming qualities have barely faded over the years. I take great comfort in knowing that we’re surrounded, always, by commonplace marvels; simple things that come alive and enrich us whenever we choose to open ourselves to them. I remain eternally grateful for being stirred by the ordinary and mundane stuff-of-life: the sound of silence; the lush sheen of an apple’s skin; the scent of moist earth; well-used, well-maintained wooden-handled tools.
Many aspects of our fast-paced world have shown themselves to be incompatible with a healthy society. Our daily lives are overtaxed by too much stimulation. Thanks to an never-ending string of technological innovations, many of Nature’s most stubborn trade secrets have been revealed. The Web came along and changed everything, forever—the universe is, almost literally, at our fingertips. And thanks to internet algorithms people get to live in reality-bubbles of their own making. Another side effect of instantly accessible information is a sort of ennui. This nameless malaise, just one of many unanticipated offshoots of the Tech Age, has symptoms that include diminished passion and curiosity; a shrunken attention span; feelings of isolation and generic sadness. Often, a look of terminal boredom that isn’t just written in the face. There’s a marked indifference towards those run-of-the-mill miracles I speak of. Someone carrying a phone probably won’t even notice the roses, much less stop to inhale their luxuriant fragrance. (As like as not, they’re staring intently at the palm of their hand.) Some of us find this compulsion to “interface” with the world by way of a hand-held, battery-powered go-between rather than interacting with it directly very strange indeed.
Some years back, an old friend and I were talking about the information revolution. About how contemporary culture has morphed into something we barely recognize; how bewildering it all is. It hardly bares mentioning that our harmless tirade was that of two dinosaurs, relics of a bygone era—a faraway time that digital natives find quaint at best. I recall one (I thought) original and rather clever take on our current predicament, when my friend Rodman began to riff on the idea that everyone should be kneeling before their phones or laptops at least once a day. To ceremoniously offer up heartfelt prayers of gratitude to that all-powerful all-knowing god, S I L I C O.
©2025Tim Forsell 6 Feb 2015, 23 Jun 2025
