The Myths of Perception
Here's an odd thing. Last Friday I had two meetings planned. One was scheduled for a specific time. The other involved me waiting at the convenience of another. Needless to say I missed the first because I was waiting for the second. This is not the odd thing. The odd thing is that I could have spoken to somebody about bumping my way up the list to get the second meeting out of the way. Thereby managing to achieve the first meeting. But I didn't. The reasons why probably go some way to explaining why I'm currently having a mental breakdown whilst residing on a psychiatric ward.
I'm in a similarly odd place right now. I'm about to sign for a flat. It's an empty shell. Rationally I know what's required. Emotionally however I have no idea what to do. I know I need a bed, fridge, cooker, carpets, and all the other paraphernalia of modern existence. I know where these things can be bought. I can probably even afford one or two things. Yet I'm stuck. Unassisted I'm completely unable to achieve any of what's required. I'm due to be thrown out of Hospital on Wednesday As things stand it's looking like I'll be living in a place only marginally better than the gutter.
I knew it I would be like this. I tried to highlight my problems to the professionals responsible for my care. I told them I was completely unable to accept or reject the offer of the flat. I told them I needed assistance. But they bullied me and pushed me and didn't listen. Their perceptions had been warped by the character I sent to view the flat - an oddly disassociated form of myself. In the end I rolled a dice, and the dice told me to accept the flat. The dice is now telling me to do nothing with regards to my flat. So I'm currently actively doing nothing. It's the only way I can cope.
I'm on a psychiatric ward. I'm one step away from being a gibbering wreck. So far I've coped by running away daily to a place my laptops can get online. The support and assistance one would expect I should be getting has never materialized. The only thing I have been offered is more medication. I've been promised lots of things. Only to me these promises are nothing but platitudes professionals utter to make themselves, collectively speaking, feel better.
I bet my psychiatrist drives a flash car; my money is on a BMW. Drives himself to and from work each day. Truly believes he's helping people. Never once questioning the underlying assumptions of shared existence. Believes his patients live in the same Universe as he does. I know he thinks my leaving the ward daily is a good thing. I doubt he's considered it's actually a form of dissociative fugue. But then I doubt he's ever considered the degree to which owning and driving a car dissociates him from my world either.