Journal Entry 1 -- 26 April 1998
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My psychiatrist said it would do me well if I started a journal, to log in anything that pops into mind, organize my thoughts, write down reminders, emotions, dreams. That sort of thing. I don’t know how these work but he said it would help. I hope he isn’t wrong. Sometimes he is.
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I don’t think he understands the predicament I’m in. He’s smart, but just because you know a few words doesn’t mean you know how to say them. He says I lost my mind somewhere along the line; I say it was never there. He says it’s just something called “depression” or “anxiety”; I say I’ve gone insane.
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Do you know what insanity is? I do. It's a...spiraling madness. It’s when one random, implausible, painful, ridiculous thought pops into your head and it just won’t leave you alone. It makes you paranoid, drives you mad, sends you to the edge of a cliff and sends you right over down into an endless pit of emotions and thoughts and paranoid pain. It’s when you toss and turn on the ground, beating yourself with a knife or scissors or razors or nails or fists because you’re in so much need of a distraction it hurts. But the cuts and bruises don’t work, so you continue beating yourself, writhing on the ground with the door shut so no one sees just how far gone you are, how desperate you are for a distraction. It’s when your thoughts jump from your entire family dying in some horrific crash to Nazis coming at your door and taking you away to thinking about how close you are to losing your job because you made one minor slip-up. It’s when you start drawing angry red-and-black triangles on a sheet of paper because you somehow think that no other shape tries as hard as a triangle does. And the only way you can calm down during this attack of insanity is by thinking about just how insane you are.
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Insanity isn’t a simple thing. Give the madman drugs and he’ll become an addict. Give the madman a reason to live and he’ll destroy it. Give the madman a friend they’ll make them an enemy. It’s why so many of us are tossed into a single asylum; we’re too far gone. Nothing can save us. My psychiatrist can’t see it yet, but I think I’m one of them too.
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If I’m not one of them yet, it’s only a matter of time.
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I’m just waiting for the chime to go off.
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