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Twisting all the bad things into good

Jan 7, 2012

Nitty Gritty, 32: Pancakes & Personality Disorders


Truly great madness cannot be achieved without significant intelligence
Henrik Tikkane





 WEDNESDAY. SEPTEMBER 7th, 2010  11:30ish


            I am alone in the dark.
            I am alone in the world, in the dark.
            It seems that neither my insomnia nor my histrionic personality have yet to acquiesce to what these doctors of medicine call an "atypical antipsychotic".
            The chosen treatment's futility lies in it's very definition, at which I simultaneously laugh and spit.

            Me? "atypical"? HA! (Not that there's anything wrong with that)
            A-typical stupid question for an unmarried man in his 30's.
            True, I have many shoes. Also true, I have loved many women.

            Psychotic? No, not I. I own no headscarf. I can not see the future.
            Not in such a mad world.
            It is not I that is the madman, man.
            It is the world that is a madman. (Wait. That doesn't make sense)
            It is... the man... that is a madworld. (?)
            So then a mad man worldman it shall forever be...forever.....
             ...and ever...Amen...especially on St. Crispin's Day, man. World.
            It's a madmanworld, man.
            Man, the madworld is mad at the madman, man.
            Man, my madman meds may make me mad.

            Man, I don't think these meds are helping.
            Things are still not making sense.
            I still have not slept.

            I took the meds almost 5 hours ago. Since then, I've just been ruminating in that miserable place between being awake and being asleep. If I can't fall asleep in my own bed, in my own room, in my own apartment, I don't see how I'm going to fall asleep here. There's some guy in the other bed a few feet away. He is on his right side, facing a yellow concrete wall that he could not be any closer to without being a Fathead. I haven't seen anything other than his back since I laid down...5 hours ago. This guy has got more sleep tonight than I've had since the 4th of July. A sleep disorder is definitely not his mental malfunction. I'm only assuming he's sleeping. I haven't seen him move though. Not even one involuntary tic. At least I know he's not jerking it. I think he might be dead. He may just be waiting for me to fall asleep before he attempts to smother me with his pillow, if he can even lift his head off of it. I guess I shouldn't complain. If you ever have to share a room with a mental case, an unconscious one should be your first choice. You don't want someone like me watching you sleep all night.
             In typical narcissistic fashion, I expect him to wake his ass up, look at me and realize that he is rooming with the most important person in the world, and then give me nothing less than his full attention and unearned respect. Plus, I'm kind of curious what kind of crazy he is. I don't even know what he looks like. Call me crazy (go ahead, call me crazy, mother fucker! See what happens), but it would be nice to know who I'm sleeping next to. I might as well get out of his bed and back in mine. Maybe I should check his wallet, try to get an idea of who he is. I forgot they have all of our personals. He hasn't made a noise. Maybe I should check his pulse, try to get an idea if I'm rooming with a corpse. This dude's fucking dead. This whole fucking place is dead. It's been that way since "lights out" at 10 o'clock. Shit, if I could go to sleep at 10 o'clock I probably wouldn't be here. This blows.

             I hear 2 crazies whispering in another room. I guess they are loud whisperererers(sp). One of them is saying that "after hours" (like it's some hotspot for strippers and coke heads), there's a cook who makes these amazing pancakes for everyone. Pancakes sound pretty good right about now. I don't know if it's invite only so I stay in bed. I wait a few minutes until I think I hear the separation-anxiety-soft-talkers heading for the kitchen, shoulder to shoulder. It sounds like, one by one, everyone except the avoidants are joining this pancake pilgrimage. I decide it's time to get my histrionic ass out of bed. I figure I won't try to wake my roomie to see if he is hungry or even breathing. Fuck it, sleep your life away, R.I.P. Van Winkle. Seriously, I think this guy is dead. Dead or not, he ain't going anywhere. It's time to make my way to eat the ass out of these amazing pancakes that I've been hearing so much imaginary whispering about. It's really nice (and really delusional) to think that this patron saint of pancakes would  serve up silverdollars in the midnight hour for a bunch of unexamined mental cases who should be sedated in their holding rooms. I become hesitant knowing that that this batter benefactor is seriously irresponsible, probably an alcoholic, and that this whole pancake-patient mixer is a serious rule violation in The South County Mental Health Code of Conduct and Ethics and Shit We Shouldn't Even Have To Tell You Not To Do. It can be found under section 211.4 under the header titled: Do This and You're Fucking Fired!...From Every Job!..Ever!....but, whatever. Pancakes.
              I picture this Pancakepalooza attended by obsessive-compulsives cleaning an already spotless kitchen, as bipolar babes openly discuss mixed episodes vs manic episodes, and clinically depressed chicks sit on counter tops unamused by the borderline boys trying to impress them by topping each others best "You wanna here something fucked up?" stories. Although I am a big fan of both pancakes and personality disorders, I don't feel like socializing with sociopaths. I'm just going to get my flapjacks and come back to my room and not talk to my roommate, who's complexion probably resembles that of a smurf.
              I walk out of my room into the empty corridor. It's silent. I don't see anybody, so I start searching for the kitchen. I turn a corner and down another long hallway, but all these rooms are small offices until it dead ends. I walk back to the corridor and down another hall. I try to open a door to enter another wing, but it's locked. I turn and head towards the entrance, where there's one last hallway. There better be some pancakes left.
            When I get to the door with the EXIT sign above it, I make a left down the hall.. I stop in my tracks. One of the techs, a big, black dude, is reading. He hasn't looked up from his magazine yet. I'm about to just go back to my room before he sees me, but then I remember what that guy whispered. "Amazing pancakes". I don't smell any pancakes, but I can taste them...and they are AMAZING. The pathological whisperer was right. I'm torn between my desire to taste these pancakes and the desire to not get a taste of whatever happens to a mental patient who is mistaken for attempting to taste freedom. Tasty, huh?
            Instead of making a decision one way or the other, I just stand there, frozen in mid stride. My upper body is still leaning forward as if it's waiting for my back leg to catch up. For some reason, I think that standing completely still makes me invisible to the naked eye. I'm standing like some statue that belongs in a strait jacket when the tech finally raises his naked eyes from his magazine. We engage in a very brief, yet very tense, staring contest. His expression isn't changing. He wins when I decide to make the first move. I raise my eyebrows at him to show my curiosity about what happens next, pancakes or pain.
            "What are you doing?" he asks me."Go back to bed. Can't just be walking around here".
            "Pancakes", I say in a low voice, as if I'm using some top secret password that I'm not sure I should be privy to.
            "What?" he says. He is visibly confused. He doesn't seem to know about the pancakes.
             Besides opening my big dumb mouth and raising my eyebrows, I still haven't moved.
            "Are there pancakes?" I ask.
            "Are there what?" He's either never heard of pancakes, is hard of hearing, or just can't believe what he's hearing.
            I speak louder, but with less confidence. "Pancakes?"
            He heard me this time. "Pancakes? No, man. There ain't no pancakes. You need to get back in bed".
            "No pancakes?" I ask with disappointment, but also making it clear to him that I know about this little midnight pancake ritual. He reacts as if midnight pancakes are merely myth.
             "No. There are NO pancakes. Get back in your room" he orders me.
             "Someone said there were pancakes".
              He puts his magazine down on the desk and looks at me. He's about to get out of his chair.
              "Good night", I say while making a beeline back to my bed.
              "Good night", I hear him say, the same way he'd say,"Fuck you".

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