dyslecticheart (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} dyslecticheart) wrote,@ 2006-04-28 12:47:00 |
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This is the story of a girl who was crazy
I wrote this before I was admited to the hospital:
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This is the story of a girl who was crazy. She had no real life, so she had to make up one. Sitting in front of her desk, in her well organized office, she lit her cigarette and thought about life. Life had not been gentle with her, and in return she had not been gentle with life. Abusing alcohol was in her past, but resent past. She would go to bars and intrude on peoples conversations. Perhaps because she didn’t have a life she wanted to persuade other people that she was the most interesting creature in the world. She would brag, she would lie, she would charm. She would do anything to escape the quiet moment where real thinking had to take turn. But here, in front of her big desk, she started to think. And what she saw in her minds eye was not pretty.
Suffering from madness from the age of seven, she had never really seen herself as well as other people could see themselves and their lives. She existed just like other people exist, but there was really nothing more to it. There was the struggle though. The only really sign of life was the immense mental pain of living. Die! Die! The voices told her. But she couldn’t make that choice. Sometimes she couldn’t die for her pedophile of a grandfather. Sometimes she had to protect her mother, who by the way wouldn’t let her eat. Then it was her dogs, which in the end was killed by the veterinarian at a young age. You always had eternal damnation, but after a while that wasn’t really what stopped her eighter. What stopped her I don’t know. Perhaps it was a silly hope; perhaps it was that she couldn’t really think rational. I always find people who commit suicide to be the most rational creatures on earth. They see their lives, figure out they can’t accept it, and do something about it. Courage. This the mad girl didn’t have. She didn’t have anything but her brain, constantly struggling with survival.
Her body was lean and muscular. Not from exercise, mind you, but from the terror of life. The constant flexing of muscles, so much so that you could see her six-pack. She looked like a cat that had been thrown out on the street. Hair big and fluffy, body lean and strong, carrying the shame with her everywhere she went. Dirty and stinking. Not much of a sight. She had no problems picking up men though. Men as lost as she was herself. There where half-wits, there where alcoholics, there where even one who ate candy till he threw up. He was on a constant sugar high, while she was on a constant low. They didn’t fit. She didn’t know they had to.
She started dividing up her personality into three parts. There was the child always crying for fun and attention. There was the responsible one who dreamt of a career. Then there was the mad and angry woman below the surface, always below the surface. I don’t know what good this did her, but she had read “The Face of Eva” years before and was sure this was the key; the answer to Freud’s riddle.
Everyone cried for therapy. She had to go to therapy, as if that would make any significant difference. In fact it did. She had one nurse after the other, one doctor after the other. She even started to believe therapy would do the trick. So she got addicted to it. Seeing them. Hearing them talk, of politics, of their divorce, of their schooling. One even fell asleep during the consultation. But this was the key. They told her many things about herself. Like that she had melancholia, that she had to get a job, that she had to come and listen to them talk. It made her worse. It made her madder then if she’d been poisoned by mercury. Why in heavens name do they let sane people help the insane? As if they have any insight. What is it they want to teach? Normality? And is this the selected method? So the girl failed again, this time with therapy.
In the end she ended up in a hospital ward for the mentally unstable. For the first time in her life she felt normal. This was a blessing out of nowhere.
And this is what the mad girl, sitting in her office looking at her life realized. She didn’t belong there, in her well organized office. She didn’t belong out in the streets. She didn’t belong in her home. She belonged in a hospital. A smoking hospital, mind you.
I wrote this before I was admited to the hospital:
________________________________________
This is the story of a girl who was crazy. She had no real life, so she had to make up one. Sitting in front of her desk, in her well organized office, she lit her cigarette and thought about life. Life had not been gentle with her, and in return she had not been gentle with life. Abusing alcohol was in her past, but resent past. She would go to bars and intrude on peoples conversations. Perhaps because she didn’t have a life she wanted to persuade other people that she was the most interesting creature in the world. She would brag, she would lie, she would charm. She would do anything to escape the quiet moment where real thinking had to take turn. But here, in front of her big desk, she started to think. And what she saw in her minds eye was not pretty.
Suffering from madness from the age of seven, she had never really seen herself as well as other people could see themselves and their lives. She existed just like other people exist, but there was really nothing more to it. There was the struggle though. The only really sign of life was the immense mental pain of living. Die! Die! The voices told her. But she couldn’t make that choice. Sometimes she couldn’t die for her pedophile of a grandfather. Sometimes she had to protect her mother, who by the way wouldn’t let her eat. Then it was her dogs, which in the end was killed by the veterinarian at a young age. You always had eternal damnation, but after a while that wasn’t really what stopped her eighter. What stopped her I don’t know. Perhaps it was a silly hope; perhaps it was that she couldn’t really think rational. I always find people who commit suicide to be the most rational creatures on earth. They see their lives, figure out they can’t accept it, and do something about it. Courage. This the mad girl didn’t have. She didn’t have anything but her brain, constantly struggling with survival.
Her body was lean and muscular. Not from exercise, mind you, but from the terror of life. The constant flexing of muscles, so much so that you could see her six-pack. She looked like a cat that had been thrown out on the street. Hair big and fluffy, body lean and strong, carrying the shame with her everywhere she went. Dirty and stinking. Not much of a sight. She had no problems picking up men though. Men as lost as she was herself. There where half-wits, there where alcoholics, there where even one who ate candy till he threw up. He was on a constant sugar high, while she was on a constant low. They didn’t fit. She didn’t know they had to.
She started dividing up her personality into three parts. There was the child always crying for fun and attention. There was the responsible one who dreamt of a career. Then there was the mad and angry woman below the surface, always below the surface. I don’t know what good this did her, but she had read “The Face of Eva” years before and was sure this was the key; the answer to Freud’s riddle.
Everyone cried for therapy. She had to go to therapy, as if that would make any significant difference. In fact it did. She had one nurse after the other, one doctor after the other. She even started to believe therapy would do the trick. So she got addicted to it. Seeing them. Hearing them talk, of politics, of their divorce, of their schooling. One even fell asleep during the consultation. But this was the key. They told her many things about herself. Like that she had melancholia, that she had to get a job, that she had to come and listen to them talk. It made her worse. It made her madder then if she’d been poisoned by mercury. Why in heavens name do they let sane people help the insane? As if they have any insight. What is it they want to teach? Normality? And is this the selected method? So the girl failed again, this time with therapy.
In the end she ended up in a hospital ward for the mentally unstable. For the first time in her life she felt normal. This was a blessing out of nowhere.
And this is what the mad girl, sitting in her office looking at her life realized. She didn’t belong there, in her well organized office. She didn’t belong out in the streets. She didn’t belong in her home. She belonged in a hospital. A smoking hospital, mind you.
