Friday, October 10, 2014

My Name is Ann

For the longest time, this page was intentionally left blank. I'm not sure if this is because I was afraid to set pen to paper or if I simply didn't have anything to say. I admit, I've spent the better part of my life confined within the safety of silence but I contend that the choice wasn't always mine. Most people don't want to hear what some of us have to say. I don't think the majority of people are intentionally cruel, either. In fact, it's somewhat paradoxical need to care that keeps most people in the dark. In order to care about something, one generally has a drive to understand how that thing works. People tend to get paralyzed when presented with a problem they don't understand. If they don't understand the problem, how can they be expected to solve it?

I never really sought after solutions, however. Part of the problem with problems is that they are incredibly hard to solve if there isn't really a problem to begin with. Imaginary problems are the worst kind because the definition of the problem and consequently the solution to said problem can only be found within the confines of those defining the problem. It's hard to appreciate help for a manufactured ailment, no matter how sincere the help seems, but I digress.

I suppose it is important to describe my circumstances in order to provide context, even though I'm at the point where context doesn't matter much anymore. I have known all my life that I exist in a place that is out of phase with everyone and everything else in the universe, at least it seems that way from my limited internal perspective. I say this not only based on my own observation, but also from the observations of others, who are kind enough to tell me these observations at every available opportunity. I've been told that these people are trained in observing behavior and context and that in order to integrate into normal society, it would be ideal that I listen to what they have to say and then model my behavior based on this input. There are ample opportunities for integration but for some reason I have been elevated to the highest and most intense program. It seems illogical to me that in order to become part of society, I have been isolated from it in a profound way, but since I'm the one in treatment, my opinion has become moot.

I am comfortable here in my own little bubble of reality. This comfort comes from the fact that I largely ignore my surroundings and exist within my own mind for the most part. To the outside observer, this may seem like I am content to sit around and stare at the walls. This is largely true. Of course this seems incredibly boring to most as they don't seem to see the same things within the walls that I do. The fact that I see subtle nuances, patterns and sometimes even words written on every surface makes me some sort of an abnormality. I spent a great deal of my childhood ignoring my reality and substituting it for the fantasy that is commonly accepted by the mass consciousness. Later in life, I found that I could no longer ignore what I was seeing or feeling. For a while, I found a mechanism of excuse that allowed me to experience my own reality while giving the outside world some sort of a plausible explanation. However, as all finely constructed lies do, it fell apart.

I wish I could say the lie came tumbling down like a massive fireball, destroying everything in its wake while at the same time manifesting a strange type of beauty. Realistically, it all ended with a bit of a non-committal whimper. I think things would have gone differently if I had noticed long ago that cracks were starting to form. When one is protected by a magic box, it is easy to ignore it failing and hard to accept the reality of it fading away. I guess that's why I'm still here, being told one thing but believing another. Both sides are on the same well-meaning coin but when you don't give a shit about the coin to begin with, it's hard to appreciate the subtle differences between the two sides.

Don't get me wrong. In a way, I am happy. Everything I need to exist as a carbon-based life form is provided for me. I don't need to worry about where my next meal is coming from or even about having to decide what to wear. Granted, everything is mind-numbingly non-stimulating, because people are under the misguided assumption that stimulation is part of the root system of my problem. Everything about my day to day existence is plotted and planned down to the last nanometer. I think I've even begun to blink on some sort of a predetermined schedule. I don't mind, really. It is very taxing on the body and mind to be self-sufficient. On the other hand, it is difficult waking up every day to a routine that fundamentally is bothersome. I am given the illusion of choice, of course. I can have either eggs or French toast for breakfast and I sometimes I'm allowed to watch whatever channel on T.V. I want, assuming it isn't too this or that. I have recently been trusted with a notepad and a pen, but only on day shift, when someone is available to make sure I'm not doing something nefarious. Presumably, this is so I can communicate with the outside world, but I'm convinced that no one here would really be interested in the thoughts churning around my head. Is there someone “out there” that possibly might be interested in studying one woman's decent into madness?

If you are that person, my name is Ann.