My Brain is a Petri Dish

 My Brain is a Petri Dish

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I’ve always thought of my brain less like a machine and more like a science experiment that’s been left on the counter too long.

Picture this: a Petri dish under a flickering light, half-labeled in Sharpie by some half-slept grad student who forgot what they were cultivating. That’s me. My brain—bubbling, fermenting, and brimming with things you’d need gloves to touch. Mold colonies of thoughts. Cultures of voices. Little microbial cities of fear, joy, and paranoia, all fighting for space under the cracked plastic lid of my skull.

I wasn’t born this way. I don’t think. I mean, I cried like any other baby. Ate my peas. Drew little stick figures with five fingers on each hand. But somewhere between learning to ride a bike and failing Algebra II, the cracks started to form.

It began subtly—whispers in the silence, like someone humming underwater. Shadows that stuck around a little too long. A flicker in the corner of my eye that wasn’t there when I turned. I didn’t tell anyone at first. I figured everyone’s brain had its own radio station—mine was just playing static a little louder.

But then Carl showed up.

Carl is a seven-foot-tall man made entirely of glass. He wears a tie, speaks in Morse code, and insists he’s my legal counsel. I didn’t hire him, but he’s very persuasive.

Then there’s Lorna, a woman with moth wings and a glowing mouth who shows up every Tuesday to inform me of government secrets. She’s tender in her own way, like a nurse giving you news that your cat has joined the CIA.

Sometimes, I see a third entity—The Grin. The Grin never has a body, just teeth. Endless teeth in a crescent moon smile, like it ate the rest of its face and was proud of it. The Grin doesn’t speak. It stares. And when it does, my skin itches like I’ve been dipped in static.

Doctors say I have schizophrenia. I say I have roommates. The meds help a little. They’re like putting a lid on the Petri dish—slows things down, keeps the spores from flying into the fan. But the cultures are still there, squirming.

Living with this mind is like tending a garden where some of the plants bite you. Or maybe it’s like being both the scientist and the subject—trapped behind the glass of your own observation.

Some days I wake up, and the world is crisp, clear, like a high-definition photograph. I eat breakfast. I call my mom. I remember to put on socks. And other days... other days the eggs talk to me. Other days the mirror doesn’t reflect me, just someone who’s wearing me. I nod, and it nods, but a beat too late.

I’m not dangerous. I’m not broken. I’m just living in a version of reality with a few extra tabs open. Some of those tabs have very convincing arguments. Some just play circus music.

But this Petri dish of mine—it’s grown more than just illness. It’s grown resilience. Humor. An eye for absurdity. A tenderness for other people with cracked containers. I know what it’s like to hold your breath during a panic spiral, to try to reason with a mind that thinks the lamp is judging you.

So I take care of it, this brain of mine. I water it with therapy. I feed it with routine. I give it sunlight when I can.

Because this isn’t a horror story. This is science. And science, for all its explosions and petri dish drama, is just another way of saying: we're still learning.

And I am, too.