I Hit Myself in the Third Eye with a Car Door by Accident

I think I'm being punished for leaning too heavily on my fantasies of the future

Last month, I opened the car door directly onto my head, hitting myself squarely and unequivocally on my third eye. A small, raised bruise has formed there. Whenever I absentmindedly touch my forehead, or even, say, my eye with an adjacent stray finger brushing the tip of the wreckage, I’m reminded that I violently opened 150 pounds of post-industrial metal on my face on an otherwise average-as-hell Wednesday. 

When it happened, I had to hold my forehead and writhe in pain for, like, a full minute before moving forward. I imagined my neighbors seeing me thinking, solemnly, “What the hell?” My dad unhelpfully offered me the too-late advice of, “You should be careful.”

I don’t know why it happened, but when I looked back on that moment, I felt like I was in a dream. And I mean that in the problematic sense. I couldn’t connect properly with reality because I hadn’t left my room (or my head) all day. I was walking and talking like you’re supposed to do, but sort of just going through the motions. Living, but on some real Fantasia vibes ass shit. Here, but not here and actually in a fantasy land that I couldn’t adequately articulate if you paid me. (But if you did pay me and give me a production budget, I’d do my best…some would even say a great job…)

God, the universe, or Zeus (whoever runs this game) led me to hit myself in the face with my dad’s car door to send me a message: wake up, bitch. I was reminded that I must root once again into my given reality – however relentlessly boring or mundane.

The concept of the third eye comes from medieval-era esoteric Hindu beliefs of tantra, which introduced the “mystical anatomy” of chakras. Entered into the culture was a new language for the idea that there’s a psychic energetic life force in us aside from our physical bodies. According to the ancients, while our two regular eyes see what’s in front of us, the third eye is thought to see into our higher consciousness: the vast, deep ocean of our soul’s existence. And for the astute clairvoyant: an ability to see the future.

From my limited understanding gained through internet research, a third eye seems to be an all-knowing concept of beautiful interconnectedness. Perhaps the idea that our higher selves are connected to something greater that we can’t fully comprehend while we even stand here squarely on Earth – a greater purpose and meaning beyond all this. Beyond generations-long enforced daily capitalist exploitation, or social distancing that’s lasted over a year, or the clinical effects of isolation, or the long term health effects of a dangerous virus we don’t know enough about yet, or a mismanaged pandemic by a government that has ostensibly only ever stood “for the people” on paper, or all of this against the backdrop of the greatest reckoning of American injustice in terms of racial and class inequality we’ve seen yet.

Roughly my vibe directly after the incident.

Like most of us, I spent the last few months of Pandemic Winter dreaming of Spring. It became a form of self-soothing. I found comfort in the depths of my imagination. However, there’s a downside of relying too heavily on fantasies to get by, such as the conscious absence from daily reality, which leads to dumb things like opening metal on my head. My body responded strangely in other ways, too, signaling concern. The anticipation of a new season launched my imagination so deep into the future that my period was late every month. (For the realists out there: not pregnant; trust me). 

Maybe the Universe led me to hit myself in the face with a damn door because I was trying to see too hard with my third eye into the future. I haven’t felt fully clear on what reality is for a while now. What does reality actually mean? Is reality only the present moment, or does dreaming count as a form of reality? How do you even separate reality from dreams or fantasies or otherwise when everything has been blended into the same gray indistinguishable smoothie?

Also, like most of us, I’ve wasted too much of my life scrolling on Instagram: a truly unreal yet frequently lived-in fake reality. I look forward to the day when someone publishes full clinical research on the effects of Instagram on the human brain so we can have a real reason to shut it down, but for now I’ll make inferences based on gut instinct and experiential evidence. That is: mostly Instagram makes me feel like shit. I start to care too much about people I don’t know that well who aren’t actively a part of my life because they’re good about posting their accomplishments in a great brand image and I’m good at getting jealous of them. I begin to wonder if I’m inadequate in comparison. The usual.

Sometimes Instagram is nice. Sometimes there’s a cool meme that makes you feel better about your personal growth or your identity as a minority in a racist society or being a Cancer moon or what have you. Maybe there’s an Instagram meme that can soothe this specific brand of existential despair I found myself in, my third eye throbbing in pain, but I just haven’t seen it yet. Maybe it says: “Disappearing is a form of existing.” And I’d re-post it as fast as you can say, “tfw it hits right.” But even when Instagram is nice, is that reality?

As I struggled to connect clearly to my current consciousness, I was punished for becoming too attached to my future consciousness (i.e. door on head = pain). Even when the day-to-day existence of staying home during a pandemic is so bleak you’ve lost your mind, the Big Guy wants you to stay present. We’re out here mining for diamonds of meaning whether we want to or not.

I feel self-conscious talking about my spiritual beliefs because when I say them out loud sometimes they sound flat and cheesy and maybe too woo-woo to hang a hat on. Maybe this also has to do with my Muslim parents making fun of my interest in tarot, and on top of that getting bullied by two hetero-ass brothers. Also, I don’t always have the language to do my beliefs justice, mainly because my belief system has been pieced together with varying bits of knowledge I found on the internet, podcasts, blogs, and the occasional solid book. I feel hesitant to write in an essay for people to read, “The universe taught me.” But much less hesitant to write, “Yeezy taught me.” Because the latter is funnier, rich in cultural context, and arguably more well-received on the internet (where I’m publishing this essay). Also, there’s, like, hundreds of cults and very basic rich white women that have used the Universe’s name in vain so many times, manipulating thousands of lost souls searching for answers. It feels painful to have to hear myself sound like one of those lost souls, even though I often am one.

But anyways, here are some of my beliefs. I believe the universe is inter-connected in ways we can only partially understand because we’re merely human. I believe there’s truth in astrology and the idea that we were born under the stars at an exact moment in time and where the planets were in the sky connects to who we are as people. And that maybe each of us is born to serve a certain role that fits into the giant puzzle of the collective and we all make up pieces that can work together or destruct each other, depending on how we choose to operate. I believe some people are psychics who do connect with our spiritual guides in a way that can be existence-affirming, and I believe that some people standing on the street in Park Slope just say they’re psychics so they can scam you out of $70 and give you a candle that they say will fix your life (that was a low moment for me). I believe there’s a mix of pre-destined fate and free-will and absolutely personal responsibility.

I’d like to believe everything happens for a reason and that maybe the universe sends us signs when we need them. I don’t know if it’s bad or stupid or uncool to believe that everything happens for a reason. It’s hard to explain when unspeakable horrors happen, and “everything happens for a reason” doesn’t feel good enough to suffice. I’m certainly not looking to defend it. But I just want to believe…in something.

In the Euphoria Christmas special of 2020, two addicts – one in recovery, one struggling to get there – Ali and Rue talked about the meaning of life. Ali, the older and wiser guy, said everything happens for a reason. Rue said, “Ali, if you're about to tell me [my dad] died for a reason, I will literally walk the fuck out. He died because he died.” Ali took a minute and said with sage insight, “Why are you, Rue Bennett, sitting here? I don't know. But here we are. So what now?” I cried that entire episode.

I’m finishing this writing in April, on the other side of the Spring Equinox. We finally made it. We’re in Spring. And, to state the obvious, everyone seems to be in a better mood. We’re collectively lifted past the one-year mark of the pandemic, into warmer weather, vaccines getting handed out by boy Biden, hope on the horizon. And my period? It’s returned to normal and came flowing back exactly on the full moon, just as it should be. Just as nature intended. It’s feeling a little bit easier to stay present in our current reality. I mean, it’s still a fight, but just a little bit easier. Birds chirping as I trudge on by. I’m still unsure if I have a solid footing in the right reality, but I guess the only way to figure that out is to keep going and just pay attention if God hits me in the face again.