Consider this. Tissue wrapped around tissue stretched across solid bone. The chambers of the heart, the walls of the arteries, the ligaments around the joints. Consider the skin across the face, the unique flesh of the fingertips of six billion and counting, no repetition. A cigarette kisses the back of the hand, distorting cells and tissue, and the body burns. A letter's edge bites the palm that holds it, slicing the skin open neatly. A knife forces itself into an arm, parting muscle, chipping bone. Consider the unconscious healing, the automatic revival of cells. Reconnection, reassembly, reiteration of biological formulas that simply put you back together, given enough time.

Now consider the brain. The thick ball of wound up wires. The Gordian organ that is bigger on the inside than it appears to be from without. The frontal lobe, the synapses between neurons, the enzymes and the inhibitors. The unique layers and coils of six billion and counting, no repetition. A parent or sibling dies, distorting routine and emotions, and the mind burns. A friend bites back at the palm that once held theirs, slicing confidence neatly. A lost lover forces themselves into the unconscious, parting veils, chipping away at memory. Consider the absolute lack of healing, the stubborn refusal of the mind to rejuvenate its cells. Rejection, retrogression, reiteration of psychological fears that simply pull you apart, given enough time.

Consider the fact that the two components of your body that do not heal are the one that feels pain and the one that remembers pain.

This same mind, this same imagination machine that discovered pi and wrote Hamlet and designed the Hagia Sophia is given a thousand menial tasks a second. It corresponds objects to their names, measures distance and deciphers color, reminds you to breathe. And it is because of these menial tasks that the mind must operate according to strict procedures. To save time, effort, to maintain efficiency, it must reject nonessential information the senses feed it, it must condition itself to react according to previous situations, it must associate names with faces, faces with memories, memories with emotions, and for this reason, we are torture victims, subjected to pain over and over again when the corresponding stimuli are present. A photograph of an old house that falls out of a book. A love letter in the pocket of an old coat. An uninvited song on the jukebox.

Even worse than these complex creations, these human constructs, are nature's triggers, prevalent and public: the scent of cold fur, the taste of saliva, the sound of fruit falling to the ground. Something so obvious and unstoppable that it resets the mind, warps time and space, resumes the pain, the loss, the fear of that moment and keeps rewinding and replaying until you can physically shudder or clench your fist or rub your eyes or run yourself so ragged and exhausted that the injury is ignored in favor of a more primal routine of physical replenishment and survival. But the mind never heals these wounds, only distracts itself from them, hides them. There may be mental bandages and psychological poultices, but these only cover the injury; what's underneath still achingly churns and slowly bleeds soul.

Imagine an athlete with a broken ankle walking down the street. Imagine a boy who's been in a car accident, a hundred cuts across his forearms from shattered windshield glass, standing in line for a movie. Imagine a woman with a domestic violence-induced bruise discoloring the right side of her face picking up a phone. Imagine these wounds, these aberrations of tissue and membranes never healing. Imagine the cells refusing to duplicate and replace, the body refusing to provide the necessary chemicals. Imagine having a black eye for the rest of your life. This is what's happening inside of our heads. And though the man with the broken ankle will be able to walk normally again, though the car wreck boy's arms will turn smooth again, though the abused wife's complexion will turn an even white again, the mental twin of that physical injury won't fade or, as a doctor might say, "come along nicely." They will always carry with them the lost opportunity of that playoff game, the isolated fear of that car crash, the dry regret of ever allowing that man to...

There is the term emotional scars. There is the idea of a broken heart. The phrase sick, twisted mind has entered our vocabulary. We insist on trying to classify the brain as just another part of the body, as if it could be sprained or paralyzed. But a body never has to question itself. A lung never has to get away for a few days, an ear never has to just pull itself together, a heart never has to be by itself for a while, or, at least, the organ we call the heart. We even attempt to use the same process to fix problems of the body and mind: therapy. Rehabilitation begins with re-education. But what succeeds with the body—brute force and repetition, the flexing of muscles, the sweat that coats the PT wards—these are just quick fixes in the analyst's office. You may get something off your chest, but it won't take the load off your mind.

But there is something that can save you or destroy. There is a point at which both the brain and the body can be approached as one and the same: tolerance. Resistance. Immunity. No pain, no gain, they say. Muscles are defined through exercise, constant movement forward, building, stretching, capable of more. Your body can get used to pain. It can become just another stimulus on a list of nonessentials: the sound of the television upstairs, the touch of your hair on your neck, the familiar smell of yourself. You can embrace the pain, the regret, the harsh reality of what actually happened, and memorize the memory until it means as much to you as a penny Abe-side down on the ground. This can work; it can relieve mild heartache for 8-12 hours a day. Or it can ruin you, sterilize your daydreams, neuter your drive for love.

Six billion and counting, no repetition. Why is that?