fiction

OK, so I’m ready to start working again. I got everything fixed that was broken. I’m rested and able to concentrate again. It’s been a while since that was the case, but I remember what it feels like to have use of all my faculties. People who think there’s something interesting about insanity have never been insane. Those of us who have been there and back know there’s nothing more frustrating than trying to get somewhere by fighting delusion.

We take the ability to think for granted until that ability disappears and is replaced by the ability to make stuff up in order to fill the void left when reason ran for cover. It’s a war, and both sides lose. Nobody comes out on top. As both commanding officer and foot soldier, I know what it’s like to wait for reinforcements that never arrive. Surrendering to the winning side seems like a good idea until you realize there are no victors, only casualties. The General has shit himself and the infantry refuses to leave the foxhole.

There can be no victors in such a situation. Suicide seems like an option. Having fought the good fight, bowing out gracefully could be see as courage. When you find yourself looking down at a hundred foot drop, a voice in your head whispers “jump.” So far I have resisted these voices and they’re strident demands. I sometimes worry that I will become too weak to do so.

My doctors devised a special magnetic cap for me to wear that brings me some comfort. It is basically an a rubber shower cap with disc magnets glued to the outside. The thirty dime-sized discs are powerful enough to reach through my skull and into my brain. If I wear a hat, it’s barely noticeable. I can also use a wig to hide the magnetic cap. I find that when I wear it I am able to think clearly and remain calm. I am able to focus.

Without it, I can be fine for a while but then I spiral down into anxiety and paranoia. The voices in my head become louder, more demanding, and critical of everyone I meet. They invite me to think that I am being denied the honors and comforts due me, that I can’t trust anyone to wish me well, and that my main role in this life is to point out what’s wrong with others. This is no recipe for peace of mind. It does not lead to a contented life.

In some places and at some times they called my condition an “artistic temperament.” Some wind up being praised for their sensitivity, and are called “geniuses.” Others of us wind up institutionalized, given a diagnosis and labeled that way for the rest of our lives. It all depends on the luck of the draw. If your artistic temperament threatens someone in a position of power, that person will find a way to have you diagnosed and diminished. Maybe that’s why I am where I am today.

I am a prophet, a poet, a priest. I see what others cannot. Even with my eyes closed, the images come, sometimes with astounding clarity.