The mind is a terrible place to reside.  I learned.

Fabrications cannot be prevented, limits no longer exist.  Diagnosis to me, at first, was just a silly myth so that doctors could keep particular patients longer or feel better about themselves in some detrimental way.  Until you are actually faced with a piece of paper that bluntly admits, for lack of better term, you have something wrong with your brain, your life completely changes.  It’s not a matter of plain-sight seeing or reading headlines-it’s a game.  You’re the only player of this amusement, and even if you reach the last level, you’re still a loser.

In some way, Christ, everything falls apart.  No longer am I a free citizen.  My mind controls my every move and my every thought.  Empty cars on the side of a road scare me.  In those two seconds of passing that deserted vehicle, my thoughts race so swiftly that a horror novel is created in my mind.  Immediately,  I imagine that someone is waiting for me in the car.  And within moments, a gun is hoisted from isolation and aimed between my eyes.  Bang! I am killed.  Never can an automobile just be there by coincidence of horrible brakes or a dying engine.  Two seconds may not seem like a long time, but when your entire body is shaking frantically and your fingers are snaked around the door handle, it’s more that just a lifetime.  If death had a time limit, you might as well declare that my age is immortal.

Sleep has suffered, and it never did anything wrong.  When I announce to myself that it’s time for bed, I need to take into account that whatever time it is,  I must add forty-seven minutes.  In order to lock all of the doors, close and lock all of the windows, go back and check both doors and windows  check every room more that three times to assure that nobody is hiding underneath a bed or within a cluttered closet, lay down with restless eyes shifting back and forth, and leave the television on to fake out a criminal; yes, that all takes roughly fifty minutes.  My dreams are never haunted by biological terrorism or serial killer.  In translation,  I am not afraid when I am dreaming.  When I am awake, dear God put me back into fantasy.

I can no longer go to school without assuming one of the weird, tortured schoolmates will bring a gun to school and shoot anyone  who makes them upset.   For all I know, there could be a ticking bomb in the men’s restroom and waiting for me to activate its destruction when I turn on the hot water to wash my hands.  If there’s a moment when I’m alone,  I force myself to the side of a stranger.  Even if it’s someone who I do not get along with,  I will attach myself until a public view of safety is revealed.

I think that government official is behind my screen.  In ten years, trees will declare war on humans.  My hands are controlled by an alien who wants to be a puppet when he grows up.

Like I said there are no limits.  And there’s no cure.  All that can I do is hope that one day, these frantic, dramatic thoughts will not become something other than falsehood.  There’s a small truth that my friends will not gather together and murder me to harvest my organs-the key words there, small truth.

My mind now is the leader of this disease.  My thoughts fuel the world around me.  My intelligence is constantly overlooked and never considered lethal.

Or perhaps I’m just a mental case who needs to be put in isolation for awhile.