M Y S T I C�� T A C O�� S T A N D

I Have No Idea What I'm Talking About ... March 20, 2006

I don't feel much of anything, most of the time. When I DO feel something, it's usually anger or sadness. Occasionally, I get sadism or jealousy. Rarely do I feel happiness, trust or even a general sense of well being. More often than not, though, I simply don't feel anything. It's not depression, I don't think, because it doesn't feel bad. It doesn't feel like anything. I spend my time as a dead-faced, cold-hearted robot. I'm not filled with despair. I'm not filled with joy. I'm not filled with ... anything. According to pop psychology, though, my lack of regular emotions means that there is probably something terribly wrong with me. This means that I ought to be suicidally depressed or some other stupid bullshit. Like most of us, I've had my fun digging through the internet, looking at symptoms of various mental diseases and trying to compare them to my own situation. Just about every disorder that is a close match always includes suicidal thoughts. But I've never found anything that really sounds like it could be a name for what is wrong with me.

Occasionally, I've imagined what it would be like to sit down and talk to a head-shrinker about this. I think the first thing I'd tell them was that I am a little disgruntled over having to PAY someone to help me with these problems. It seems a little pitiful to me. It seems like a person ought to have various friends or family to help them work out various aspects of a mild mental disorder. If they didn't escort me out of the office that second for calling their profession's validity into question, I'd go on to explain that I realize sometimes the reason a person is messed up is because they HAVE no friends or family who can help them. They might be messed up because those people around them were part of the cause of the disorder. Then, they might get even worse because their disorder prevents them from getting close enough to any new friends to ask for help. Their disorder pushes away the only help they might have had. I'm sure by this time, Mr/Mrs Head-Shrinky will be a little more comfortable with me. Sure, I might have questioned whether or not the world needs them, but then I put things straight again. "Of COURSE it needs you," I tell them. I suppose at some point, I'd have to tell the psychologist what, exactly, I came to them for. I have no idea, though, since I've never actually been. Maybe not. Maybe they'd try to tell ME what I was there for. Maybe, just like when a skeptic goes to a fortune teller, I'd ask them, "So, you're a trained brain doctor-type, right? What do YOU think I'm here for?" I'd be like the guy who goes to the seer's house to ask her if she knew he was coming. Of course, the seer will say, "Of course I did, child. Don't be silly." No matter what the truth might have been, the answer to THAT question must always be yes, that is, the answer must always be yes if you want to keep them coming back to hand you more money. In the doctor's case, perhaps, they'd start asking me questions, so they could read my tiny little mind and decide which circut has fizzled out. They'd tell me, after I came back for a few of these kinds of sessions, "Here, this is what is wrong with you. This is going to take a looooong, loooooooong time to fix. Would you like pharmecuticals with that?" Or maybe, going back to that first session, they'd let me read my list. No, I'd make them listen to my list. I wouldn't let them be a modern version of a fortune teller with me.

Since I'm never going, thanks to my complete lack of health insurance or money, I suppose I can just read my list to you. Ready? Didn't think so. Flee while you still can!

Sleep disturbances.
Insomnia.
Mild hallucinations.
Dangerous sexual practices.
Drug abuse.
Addiction.
Paranoia.
Emotional withdrawl.
Violent behavior.
Abandonment issues.
Anger issues.
Social withdrawl.
Social phobia.

I'd go on to tell them about my undiagnosed semi-psychotic episode a couple summers ago. I'd tell them that there's no need to help me dig for memories of repressed trauma, because as far as I know, I never repressed anything. I remember clearly the sexual abuse I was subjected to at the tender age of three. I learned about repression before my brain was able to totally forget what had happened, and I promised myself that I wouldn't let myself forget anything. I would tell them about the time I considered suicide, from 3rd to 4th grade. I'd tell them about the ongoing mental and physical tortures I had to endure at the hands of my peers between 3rd grade and 7th grade. I'd tell them that the only reason I DIDN'T kill myself when I wanted to was that I had no idea how to. I'd make sure they understand that after those two aweful years, though, I never once had another suicidal thought. I'd tell them that by the time I was in 5th grade, I'd decided that if I commited suicide, I'd be doing it to get back at people. By 5th grade, I realized that no one I wanted to get even with would give two shits if I took a bath with a plugged in toaster oven or not. Sure, they'd all line up at my stupid, tragic funeral to insist that they had known and loved me well. Sure, they'd all use my death as a way to show eachother what wonderful people they were. The whole thing, though, would be a sham. Everyone would have known exactly what kinds of shit they pulled on me. My mom would be standing right up by the front, bawling her pretty blue eyes out. My dad would be holding her. They'd be the only two people in the room who were crying for real, crying for me. Everyone else, they'd be busy trying to make themselves look better. They'd be patting my mom on the shoulder and telling her good things about me, things they just made up, things they couldn't possibly know whether they were true or not. Some of them would be worried that they had to make up for whatever it was they did to me, and a few would be there to smirk proudly over the fruit of their labors. Except for those two people in the front of the room, no one else would be there to mourn my tragic passing. They'd be there for themselves, the bastards. I didn't want to provide those people with that kind of opportunity. It sickened me to think of them using my corpse as yet another stepping stool in their quest for social success. Instead, then, I decided to live. "They hate me being around," I thought, "so I'll teach them by STAYING around. I'll show them that they can't get rid of me. THEY will have to do the deed THEMSELVES if they want me to disappear. They will have to ruin their own lives if they want to win, and they won't do that." I'd give them details about my hallucinations. How, since I was a little kid, I've been seeing these little black animal-shaped paper cutout looking things pouring out of dark places like light socket holes and out from under beds. Cockroaches. Spiders. Centipedes. Rats. Dog/Wolf-things with glowing red eyes. Snakes. Birds. Once, I even saw a moose. I'd tell them about the one and only time I mistook a hallucination for reality and how the animal-thing then proceeded to go full 3-D and attack me. How I blacked out and only came-to as I was unlocking my front door. How my hands and forearms looked like they were stained with blood that wouldn't wash off. Blood that no one else could see. Blood that was gone when I woke up the next morning. I'd tell them about my inability to go to concerts or nightclubs because of the terrifying panic attacks I get when strangers touch me. It just makes me want to rush home and take a bath. It makes me want to find some hand sanitizer and rub it all over my body. How if I can't get out of the crowd, I get faint and my heart starts racing. How I start wanting to claw someone's face off so everyone will back the fuck off and stop touching me. I'd tell them that I have never let my friends hug me or touch me in any way because of my fear that it would induce a panic attack. I was always so afraid I would embarass myself and everyone in the room by freaking out if someone touched me. So I just avoided it. I just made it clear that I do not hug anyone, I do not share my food with anyone, no matter how hard I might cry, I don't want ANYONE's hand on my shoulder, no matter how much I might like whoever it was, those were the rules. I mean, seriously, what's a friend going to think if you turn into some kind of pale-faced, sweating, half crazy animal just because they tried to give you a hug? It's better not to risk it. Then I'd tell them about my risky sexual behavior. How, oddly, it doesn't bother me one bit to be touched by a stranger in this kind of situation. I'd even tell them that I had an idea why this was true. I'd tell them, in a crowd, I am surrounded by people and feel totally powerless. In sex, I can easily take power if I want. I'm the woman. I can just shove whoever off, have myself a laugh at his small dick, tell him to wash the dingleberries out of his dirty asshole and that would be it. Try telling a crowd something like that, though, and they probably won't hear you. IF they DO hear you, they might decide to kill you. There's power in numbers, they say, but they neglect to mention that this power only works if you're PART of those numbers. If you're not going along with them, the crowd could eat you alive. Literally. What could the police really do if a massive concert crowd suddenly turned to murderous canabalism? If they decided to make you lunch, why, you'd have no chance. Even if the police did eventually stop them, you'd be done for before that ever happened.

So see, pop psychology is wrong. There is not anything terribly wrong with me because I'm not down with those emotion thingies that everyone else seems to like having all the time. That's not what's wrong at all. I've been a' hallucinating since I was in my crib, since before I'd ever been a victim of anything. I've been having dreams of rapists and murderers before I even knew what the words for those things are.

I feel like I'm reincarnated or something and they forgot to reformat my soul before they stuck me back in the world. Like I was born with a pre-owned consciousness, already full of computing errors, stains, sins and viruses. Hell, my mom says I didn't even cry when I was born. It was as if I'd already been through it before and knew what to expect.

Yeah. I'm a nutcase and a half. That's what I'd tell them, that is, IF I had any damn money to pay someone to listen. But I don't, so instead, I talk to YOU non-existant people. Boy. Do I feel better already. (Insert insane laughter here.)

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