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Twisting all the bad things into good

Jan 28, 2012

THE PATRON SAINT OF . . . WHATEVER: A Scrude Awakening

          

To recognize one's own insanity is, of course, the arising of sanity, the beginning of healing and transcendence. 
 Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose


THURSDAY 9/9/10                       
                  
             There is no way to ignore or process the onslaught of random, bizarre memories from the last 6 days. I need to get out of my head if I'm ever going to get out of this place. I need to work backwards from the last thing I remember. I need to know my back story before someone gets me out of bed and I have to act like a normal person in front of some doctor.      

             I can remember  Days of Heaven. It was playing on the ceiling above my bed. There couldn't have been a movie on the ceiling. If I had seen Days of Heaven, it was only in my dreams. If it wasn't a dream, then the only way I could have seen a movie like that was because of the drugs.
             Maybe the antipsychotic they gave me had the opposite effect on a brain as unique as my own. What happened before they gave me the meds? I cursed at my mom. Ouch, that was an unfortunate first. That was after the cop dropped me off here...before that, he handcuffed me. Handcuffs were not a first. That was right after I found out my dad faked his death. My...dad...faked...his...death? That would be another first. It's unreasonable, but not impossible, I guess. Okay, before that I was hanging out with DJB. Wait. Why the fuck would I have been hanging out with DJB? He's the only person that I can honestly say that I hate, but I was still hanging out with him yesterday. How the hell did that happen?
            It never happened.
            This is my extreme close up.
            This is me admitting to myself that I lost my mind.
            My God.
            What else never happened?
            There was no Vegas trip. I haven't seen the twins in five years. My father did not fake his death. My mother was not having an affair. I was not in Philly with pimps and prostitutes, no fights to the death on a boat, there was no shipwreck treasure, there was no conglomerate. I was delusional. I was hallucinating. I was seeing things that were not real and I was talking to people who were not there. It's like a bunch of crystal clear memories. I have crystal clear memories of things that never happened. My mind turned on the rest of me. The ghost took over the machine. It's gone now, but it's still an uneasy feeling to know that your eyes and ears and mind can not always be trusted. What else does a person have? It's more than an uneasy feeling. It's nauseating. I am sickened.

            I might throw up.            
            It wasn't everyone else who was crazy.
            It was just me. This was all me.
            No. Way.
            Fuck. Me.
   
            They did.
            My cerebellum has been skull fucked by fear.
            Regrets of  grief and shame double teamed my emotions.
            They all just ran a train on my think tank.
            They took turns until I couldn't tell one from the other.
            It was a gratuitous gangbang of my grey matter.
            When they were done, they were gone.
            I'm left here alone, laying in a strange bed, staring at the ceiling.
            Turned out by my vices, then discarded.
            I've always been easy, but never dirty.
            Disgusted, but never defiled.
            An all time low.
            A line was crossed this time.
          
            If I have some kind of mental illness, how come it took almost 35 years to show itself? Maybe the unending depression, the unrelenting stress, and the unbearable insomnia all contributed to my undoing. Honestly, I really hope that is what happened. A nervous breakdown, I can handle. Maybe I didn't "handle" it so well. Let's just say that a nervous breakdown is something I could live with, just in case the guy in the white coat offers my diagnosis in the form of multiple choice. I'm still not very confident that nervous breakdowns can cause hallucinations that last a week. Then again, my medical background is more rooted in the pharmacological  field than psychiatry.
            These hallucinations were not like dreams. Even if they were not reality, they were just as real. The memories I have of them are no different than my clearest memories of things that did happen. If anything, they are clearer. The memories of these things that never happened were burned deeper into my mind.
             The only other times I had hallucinations was when I was tripping on LSD. It's been over 15 years since the last time I ate acid, so this was not some like totally far out six day acid flashback, man. You dig? I'll take six hours of feeling like I'm having a nightmare over six days of living a nightmare, no cosmic questions asked. This went far beyond my most psychedelic trip. Grateful Dead, Miami, 4/7/94. The time when the skeletons were playing on stage instead of the band members. That was no comparison. At least when you're losing your mind while tripping the light fantastic, you actually know that the light that is fantastic is being tripped upon. This may not bring much comfort during the darker parts of  your soul strip, but at least you are aware that your shit is all fucked up. If you can keep your cotton mouth shut, nobody else has to know about the mess that is your mind. Over those six days, I was the only one who could not recognize the fucked up state of my shit. Everything, no matter how bizarre, made perfect sense at the time. Somehow, a part of my mind was unlocked that acid could never reach. As scary as a drug psychosis can be, the common denominator is always drugs. A drug free psychotic episode raises more questions and offers no easy answer. If an answer is given, it only leads to more questions, which will only lead to answers that will be followed by questions like,"Is it expensive?" and "Does it have any side effects?"
     
            Whatever answer I am given to my question of,"How fucked up am I, Doc?" and no matter the cost,  nobody can ever find out about this. This goes to the grave with only the people who already know. That raises an obvious question, so let's just cut to the not so obvious answer.
            Jeff, 1.
            Mom and Dad, 2 and 3.
            My roommate, 4.
            My neighbor with the pills and the shih tzu, 5.
            How many other neighbors? 4 or 5 maybe? 10 or 20?

            There's no telling how many have witnessed my madness or me being taken away in handcuffs cursing. It shouldn't be too hard to get an accurate head count once I see how my neighbors look at me, or how they won't look at me, or how even the morbidly obese lady prefers to carry her groceries up the stairs to the 5th floor instead of having to share an elevator with me. Fuck it, more room for me. I'll just put on a brave face when I occasionally look up from the floor and see a neighbor. 

            I am moving the fuck out.
            Where am I gonna go?
            No job. No first. No last. No middle. No security. No nothing.
            As for my apartment? It doesn't look like I'm going anywhere.
            As for my life? It looks like I'm going nowhere.
            I am pretty much screwed.
            I am pretty much Scrooge, interrupted.

            Once again, I got what I wanted.
            I got Scrooged.
            It was something I always wanted to happen, to have some kind of "otherworldly" experience that would give me a new appreciation for life overnight, to wake up and find myself to be a changed man with a new outlook on life. Unfortunately, I don't have a schilling to my name. Now that I think about it,  maybe I'm not Scrooge. Maybe I'm that "delightful", but dirty, street urchin Scrooge sent to the market with money to buy the prize turkey...or maybe it was a goose. Whatever. It was a big, dead bird. It really doesn't matter because I wouldn't be coming back with it. First of all, it's Christmas Day, so unless that butcher's best is a Kung Pao chicken, the joint's not even open. That doesn't even matter. The place could be open, closed, Chinese, Japanese, it wouldn't change the fact that this is the same miserable prick who never offered my street hustling ass anything but a caning and a dirty look. I'll admit that it is kind of sad that the old man needs to be reminded that today is Jesus' birthday, the one day of the year when we should all be at our very best. For the right price, I may even sing Silent Night for him, but you can all go get fucked if you think I'm coming back with anything resembling a goddamn turducken. "Yeah, sure, Ebenezer. Let me run to the butcher shop for you. Toss me another coin and I'll pick up your dry cleaning while I'm at it. Maybe when I get back you can offer me some more of your pocket change to come upstairs so I can take a shower while you take some pictures".
              
            Besides the probability that pills will be purchased in lieu of poultry, the rest of the main themes are applicable to my story, kind of. A few, at least.
            A selfish, sad man.
            A bah humbug/ fuck the world attitude.
            Ghosts of past regrets and present shame.
            The ghost of a hopeless future for a crippled boy.
            Waking up as a different person from the one who fell asleep.

            What matters most is that the ghosts are gone and I'm still here.
            I feel like some sort of psychotic Scrooge.
            A psychotic Scrooge with a second chance.
            Dickens for delusional degenerates.
            A Christmas Carol for crazy cokehead types.
            It may not exactly be a version that Dickens would have been thrilled to see written. The author's sentiment would most likely be shared by every other self respecting author, or by anyone who has ever read the classic novel, or even anyone who has even seen one of the many film versions. Suffice to say that this story would not be approved of and possibly protested by anyone who is not a delusional degenerate or crazy cokehead type. That's okay. Following the rules of society did not get me to where I am today...a mental health facility where I was involuntarily committed to in handcuffs and must be held for seventy two hours at the very minimum by a Florida statute known as the Baker Act. 
            It's not the script I would have written.
            Whatever.
            Everyone needs a hero, even crazy cokehead types.
            Even delusional degenerates deserve their own patron saint.
            I know just the guy.

            Unfortunately, he's going to be busy for the next seventy two hours.
         

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