I always wanted to be special. Even if it meant pretending. They told me I was, and I liked it. But as I grew older, it all became harder to believe.
People tend to mature as they age, accepting the grey areas of reality. Instead of all that, I started getting high as shit all the time. In my stoned little cocoon, it was easier to delude myself and chase that old feeling. And I made sure to never try too hard at anything, so that I’d always have an excuse when I didn’t succeed.
It reached an extreme. The boundaries of my mind stretched too far, and too thin. Then something just – snapped, and I was gone. Not only did I let it happen, I looked forward to this disintegration, even loved it at times. Because I had found exactly what I wanted to rediscover; I felt special again. Unfortunately, in this case, ‘special’ also meant ‘psychotic.’
Long story short, I wound up strapped to an ER bed with a slashed throat and a couple of casual stab holes, while some blue-eyed doctor glared into me as he said,
“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY RIGHTS.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate my suggestion as to where he ought to put those anti-psychosis meds. Nor did he respond well to me declining his demand that I receive a tetanus shot. But by that point, his god complex had already flared up, so explaining that I was already indoctrinated or whatever was a moot point.
“I don’t want any pills, or shots, or any medical treatment,” I said, as calmly as someone covered in blood can say anything. But apparently you can’t say “I’ll just walk home, it’s fine,” when you’re in a hospital on the Mexico/California border and your address is in Colorado. It also doesn’t help if the police have already labeled you as a ‘code 5150,’ which is a polite way of saying ‘crazy on the loose.’
So the doctor gave the nod to the nurse anyway, and she jabbed me with her needle. That’s when the walls started closing in.
I blacked out. But not in the traditional sense. I’m assuming the kind of person interested in reading this is probably also the kind who blacks out ‘traditionally.’ I was out, but only because I could not move, or see anything. I guess I could see just fine, I just couldn’t lift my eyelids.
So I felt them shoving every inch of the catheter up(? down?) my urethra, and jamming the even longer tube of the breathing machine down my throat. Imagine drowning, needing to gasp for air, getting violated in two different holes, trying to scream out for help, but being completely paralyzed, except for your sensory nerves, which are all turned up to 11. If I’m ever unresponsive and hooked up to machines like that, just kill me.
Then they zipped me up in a body bag ‘for transport.’ The sights and sounds will never leave me. Hearing the zipper, the crinkling of the plastic. Seeing the dark from under my eyelids turn darker.
From my limited experience, it kind of sucks not to have rights. And I don’t think it was a tetanus shot.
I don’t want to be special anymore.
And speaking of misdiagnosis, the new timing chain did not fix my car.
After another unexpected round of my favorite game: ‘jump out and push your dead car out of the busy intersection’, my mind went blank. I spent about two days lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan, contemplating the futility of existence.
My paycheck turned into parts for the car. I spent vacation time to put the parts in the car. The parts went in the car, blood was shed, and the Lord’s name taken in vain.
But the car’s still broke. And now I’m broke too, just in time for Christmas.
It’s like being crazy. It might be embarrassing, and painful, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t fun.
