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.
