Funny how things so insignificant can provoke such profound chasms of “less-than-greatness”.
Is sanity a choice? I keep asking myself that question over and over and I’ve gotten to the point that my conundrum with relative sanity and disillusioned insanity goes on to an infinite repetition in my head. Like the acrid eardrum crippling tune of an Ice Cream Truck that even you can’t get out of your own head now.
If seven out of eight people in a case study can wind up admitted to a psych ward with what is suggested as “Schizophrenia” then something within the realm of the human brain is perfectly capable of inducing “insanity”, or at the very least…replicating it.
Sane people successfully emulating the sane and insane people successfully believing the voices in their heads telling them they’re not insane.
What if insane people possess the same intellectual ability to feign sanity…all by making a choice? Case in point is my utter confusion over my current mental state.
Example: I’m sitting in front of a computer eating corn flakes but what am I really doing? It has reached the point where my mere clattering upon this very keyboard could trigger the intense internal pinball wizardry that is the little steel ball of sanity’s chaotic and helter-skelter tantrum-like ebullition.
I’ve already had one close call with waking the little fucker up with my flippers of grief, opening and shutting a creaky closet door while unwillingly revisiting a recent trauma tonight. Unbelievable.
I was never like this as a child. I never had dreams or thoughts that were so petrifying that I had to wake up my entire nervous system. When I was eleven, I was shooing my Mother to bed so I could partake in Cinemax’s Friday After Dark’s “boobage”. I wasn’t morbidly neurotic and apprehensive of every ghost of life gone by. If I had a nickel for every time I heard one remind me of some past fuck-up, mistake or failure, I’d have enough to pay at least a year’s worth of rent.
I, by Nature, am a fairly maladjusted and obsessive compulsive person and naturally having to tip-toe in my own head has left me extremely fatigued about each approaching hour. I now cannot seem to muster up enough courage to just fucking read a book because like a Rooster at dawn, something inevitably springs to consciousness and begins to hover over me…listening…for any noise…so they can run jump into my waking life and play “One, two, Freddy’s Coming for You!”…
My frustration has morphed into anger and resentment of myself because I’ve confronted these demons myriad times to no avail and I’m a problem solver and I’ve yet to find any solutions. I’ve grown comfortable with the fact that I don’t live in darkness; darkness lives in me and I suppose that’s progress of some sort.
Is sanity a choice? There’s that question again.
Ultimately, I will crack my copy of Chaucer or Rumi and will read a little to numb me but what will happen between now and then?
So, frustration and my own fears/issues aside.
Am I sane, desperately trying to find a diagnosis of “insane” to explain my current predicaments because the justification of insanity would make it easier to cope? Or. Am I insane desperately trying to convince myself that I am “sane” because that’s part of the psychosis?
If sanity is a choice then so is insanity. At some point we all choose. The question that then arises is: “Have I already chosen?” and then “What choice did I make?”
The saga continues…