Mentality
[Field Trip to the Frontal Lobe of the Brain]
“Seatbelts, everyone!” said Ms. Frizzle. “Please, let this be a normal field trip!” pleaded Arnold. With a whirr of the engine and a mischievous laugh from Ms. Frizzle, the Magic School Bus shrinks to the size of a dust particle and zips straight into the nostrils. Instantly, the class is surrounded by a forest of nasal hairs, swaying like seaweed in an invisible current. Dodging a mucus tsunami, the bus latches onto the olfactory nerve, a bundle of microscopic pathways that carry scent signals directly to the brain. The tunnel glows with electric impulses and smells of fresh cookies? A rotten sock? —flash past like neon signs on a highway. The bus then swooshes through the cribriform plate, a tiny, Swiss-cheese-like bone at the base of the skull, and lands in the frontal lobe, the brain’s control center for decision-making, personality, and problem-solving. The frontal lobe buzzes with neuron traffic—tiny sparks zip between brain cells, carrying thoughts and ideas like lightning bolts on a superhighway.
The Magic School Bus is an animated TV series that premiered in September 1994 and aired on PBS (Public Broadcasting Service). The show transforms science education into an exciting adventure where curiosity fuels discovery. Growing up in a low-income family with parents working early morning shifts, I rode the yellow school bus daily to and from school. Unlike The Magic School Bus, my bus rides weren’t filled with thrilling adventures. The yellow school bus is primarily American; its standardized color was adopted in 1939 to ensure high visibility and safety. While my rides were routine, one school day in 2004 stood out. As I swaggered onto the steps, the bus driver turned to us and said, “Hey guys, if you’re for Bush, sit on the left; if you’re for Kerry, sit on the right.” I glanced around and saw many kids seated on the right, including my cousins. Not knowing what was happening, I chose the left side, eager to have a seat to myself. I realized the driver had been playfully provoking our opinions on the 2004 U.S. Presidential Election between George W. Bush and John Kerry.
…
Years later, on a chilly evening around 7:00 p.m., my younger cousin and I crossed arms as we walked toward a Japanese restaurant for dinner. Inside, as we approached the host, a familiar unease crept in. My cousin noticed my discomfort and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I nodded and said, “Let’s go. Check me into the mental health ward, please.”
[Night Fall]
Pain. It’s dull. It’s sharp. Occasionally, a throbbing sensation radiates from the top of my brain down the back of my neck. Maybe it was the stress of being unemployed and behind on bills. Maybe it was the consequence of weaning off psychosis medication months ago. Or perhaps it was the more profound realization that I had no friends, that I was a failure compared to my peers, or that I was only now, at age 30, stepping into adulthood. When I arrived at the hospital, I described my symptoms to the healthcare professionals. Sitting with my knees bent, my body curled forward, I crouched on the bed. My palms pressed over my head, fingers threading through my hair as I buried my face into the sheets. The world felt smaller like this—quiet, distant—just me, folded into myself, thinking, searching for common sense. They diagnosed me with schizophrenia and recommended that I stay for a few days to stabilize with medication. I voluntarily agreed.
The first night was terrifying. The ward was cold and dark, and my medication had yet to take full effect. As I wandered the halls, I saw people from different backgrounds, races, and histories. Restless, unable to sit still, I began talking to other patients. As I listened to their stories, I realized that mental health struggles stem from a variety of factors and that society often stigmatizes those who carry these labels. Yet here, within these walls, we shared a common goal: healing. It started with one person. Using Uno cards, we played Blackjack, Poker, Texas Hold ‘Em, Baccarat, and Golf. Eventually, we got regular playing cards, and the real fun began. During my short stay, I met incredible people. We spent our free time playing cards; some shared stories, and most of the time, I solely focused on winning the games. Despite my condition being considered serious, I chose to check myself before I wrecked myself.
I considered myself fortunate—my symptoms weren’t as severe as others. The battle within our minds can either break us or make us stronger. The world is already lonely; we pass by thousands of people daily, yet some of us want to be remembered. Sitting alone in my hospital room, I reflected on my condition—an unfortunate reality I had to face. To pass the time, I wondered what was happening inside my brain to cause schizophrenia. My mind drifted to The Magic School Bus, a childhood favorite, and I imagined an extraordinary journey through the human brain. One thought led to another, with a former school bus driver. As my strength returned, so did clarity—at rock bottom, the only way forward is up. With the small notebook they had given me, I sketched out a plan for my pursuit of happiness. My time at the ward ended, so I spent my last moments playing games with other patients, wishing them healing. When I left the hospital, I carried a renewed spirit and a stronger mindset. Everyone walks their path, and sometimes, that path is solitary. But in that solitude, I realized that healing isn’t just about recovery—it’s about resilience, understanding, and the courage to keep moving forward.
