He hadn't read the forum rules before he clicked 'agree and accept.' He hoped the jist was 'don't be a dick and try to post in the right place' and not some nazi list of instructions one must follow or your post will be deleted by a bot.
This seemed like a more accepting place. He has learned, even amongst certain communities that it is better to talk about himself in third person, because then that person can become an abstract, a projection, an imaginary life that is a combination of author and reader. If the author uses the first person, I would be keeping the absolute creation of my character to myself and forcing you to either follow or oppose me. And so he changed back to third person so that people would feel out of sorts, and hopefully ride the rollercoaster a bit.
He was taking a chance here, hacking into a router in the world's most lame version of the movie The Matrix, but the end goal was the same.
He had become enamored with the idea of metafiction, and self-self awareness. He had realized it was something that not everyone experienced, at least not in the same ways.
He decided perhaps the others who had been labeled bipolar would understand. He was worried those in charge would see the story and be concerned less a communal descent into madness would begin. He understood their charge.
That said, there was a pattern connected that only few who were a certain kind of 'special' could see--but when you see a pattern like this, you also always miss something.
Treading this area is difficult for those who have been diagnosed with certain disorders. One can't exactly puff out one's chest, parade around and say, I'm not mad, I'm actually magickal and from the future, and I see something you don't see. Nothing would require an assertive push to increase in dosage or medication to bring one back into acceptable perception.
He had started typing already, but he couldn't even bring himself to go back and read it. He stared ahead, ever ahead, not even stopping to describe himself, his 41 wiry but somehow skinnyfat self with salt and pepper hair that is too long for his age not to mention his room that any 24 year old male would kill for.
Ah, there, hopefully that will keep those readers who need to stay attached to the moment satisfied. No wait, he's typing this post on a late 2011 macbook pro-- the last of the 17" macbook pros, the end of an era, still kicking, almost 7 years later--runs pretty well too. Hopefully apple will keep their computers this way.
He got distracted. He came here for a purpose and it was so deep and so important and so earth shattering that he danced around jammering about
something interesting, I'm sure, but overly long, and difficult to follow.
What he really wanted to do was just stand up in his chair-- and with no barrier between himself and the person reading it-- not reconstituted emotions confined by grammar and metaphor in paragraphs in pages. But he had to write too much for many, not enough for others, less self-obsessive for others--maybe most.
He wanted to say simply this. Mental health 'disorders' are not a disease, in that it doesn't 'just happen' and react in 'unpredictable ways' of which most of them are not accepted by mainstream "people."
There is a pattern to them, and it's difficult to follow when you change from first person to third midstream and back, and he laughed and thought to himself, "...and we're just getting started."
The 'disorders' and the drugs we use to treat them--both prescribed and not--form a kind of pattern that explains the relationship between many mental diagnosis, and greatly simplifies the model for cognition, time, and human interaction.
He stopped typing. He was hoping someone, just one, was still reading, still with him.
It's hard to say... you know, the crazy people just may be a kind of magic? special in the good and the bad way at the same time, maybe? that's not to say we don't need medication, it's to say that the trauma, genetics, and gene expression (epigenetics) that made us this way--this out of sync, for that is the common thread.
ALS. Let's start there. Not really a 'mental health' disorder, but I actually think that may not be the case. Who are the two most famous ALS cases? Polar opposites-- Lou Gherig and Stephen Hawking. Gherig, a man who fell so deeply into focusing on his body that it lost track of his mind, and a man who fell so deeply into his mind that it lost track of his body.
Through neural plasticity--but still requires a certain dna/epigenetic mixture to go that far.
There are several different kinds of Autism. Let's do those. Throwing away all current sub-syndromes, I'll describe them in 4 categories: The ones who are brilliantly analytical but have far less standard ability to relate through human emotion. There is the kind that is too sensitive to environmental noises and trauma. There is the kind that is obsessed with details, remembering dates and details, and then the 4th kind--the missing autism-- is chronic depression. Not able to experience joy for one of many different reasons, dating back to birth and before, often.
Most of those things are considered autism, or the same disorder even though they are quite different. Perhaps the thing that connects them is the idea of "too much x, not enough y" That's fair enough.
Two things though:
1)once these ideas are no longer considered 'diseases' that you 'just happen to get' actual diagnosis of the events leading to the diagnosis must be performed. otherwise, the wound is simply treated for pain, not restored, so that it might heal. that is far more a treatment than drugs, if it is possible. but sometimes, you have to stand for your rights and know you've been gaslighted, not just by those you love, but also by the world at large, because seeing the truth is too terrible.
and
2)all bets are off.
He came here to warn them. Sort of. He wanted to do a funny play on schizophrenia to get some of the stranger things off his chest. He munched on some fresh mozzerella. Well, not now, not right this second, but earlier, when he stopped writing one of the paragraphs above.
The world as we know it must go away. Not through destruction, not through death, but through definition.
The writer scrawled at his macbook which was plugged in beside his nightstand; it's white weatherworn cable snaking around to the power brick, whose small DC powerlead tethered the macbook to the ground, to earth--with magnets, no less.
He was still looking for his voice and he was looking for his soapbox. this was just the beginning, he thought--though it felt like it had been beginning for ages. Perhaps it had. all he knew was this-- he had said something. Not everything, but he sat content at his stainless steel non-retina macbook, only partly wishing he had the money to own one of those fancy new ones, if only he could be normal enough, magickally somehow.
