Whoah
From time to time I find a little voices will pop-up in my mind and ask me to do something. It's especially hard at such times. It's more than the uncertainty over where the voice comes from or the motives behind the command. I suspect it has more to do with being detained in a secure unit where I was physically assaulted by nursing staff and emotionally assaulted by psychiatry. A circumstance which lead me to adopt an air of passivity I'm still affecting. Moving beyond this mindset is difficult.
Of course command hallucinations such as I describe are worrysome. It's the kind of thing that gets mental health professionals discussing hospitalization and medication. Yet these are the voices that have to tell me to eat, to get out of bed in the morning. Left to my own device I'd be a vegtable. It's only because it's the path to causing least harm which keeps me here. On the day I find I don't care about that any more I will go. Although, to be fair, I can see such a thing is now unlikely: there's hope to be found in the oddest of insanities.
I've got a little voice in my mind now. Asking me to do more than maintain the mechanisms of everyday existence. A letter I need to write. Something I find I'm unable to do without stepping inside a part of my mind I don't care to go. Facts, memories and recollections of my path through the system I'm currently locked into. Things which trigger bouts of suicide ideation along with other behaviour that raises questions of child welfare. So I'll fracture my personality and allow a sub-persona to write the letter for me. Seen through the eyes of the world this is yet another insanity. Yet for me it's a defence mechanism.
I have to ask myself if it's a dysfunctional defence mechanism. For my personality is fractured enough as it is. Although I can see how it's something I've always done. A way to avoid being hurt. For the world seems to enjoy causing me hurt. I'm unsure as to why. Perhaps some people are born to be victims, and I'm one of them. But few care to listen to me when I say such things. In my experience most people prefer delusion over truth. So I bury my hurt in words few care to read and, as ever, find my own way.
In a way I suppose being a writer is a curse. It's the one way I can truly express myself. Yet the world expects me to talk, to feed the gossip with one liners, yet if you're hearing my voice you can be assured I'm not really there. Nobody who hears my voice really sees me. For the easiest way to hide the hurt is to show people what they expect to see. It's not hard, remarkably easy in fact. So easy that I've begun to suspect I'm an unconscious telepath. Mirroring unconscious expectations as a way to remain unseen.
I've been fooling mental-health professionals into seeing what I want them to see since I was eighteen. Recent experience shows it's a delusion they are more than willing to enter into. Something they would even appear to to want. For everyone wants an easy life, to do with the least amount of effort. Few want a challenging patient. So before I even start weaving my spell I've got a certain amount of human nature working in my favour.
There's a certain irony operating here. For although assistance is available to help deal with mental dysfunction, my dysfunction prevents me from asking for that help. In it's way that dysfunction binds me, defines me almost. So I'll remain passive, live my predominantly solitary existence. By myself I'll quietly deal with the days where I want the pain to end so badly I really do want to die. Embrace the voices which help me survive. And live for the day I can see life beyond the end of tomorrow.