I went to a shrink once. Not out of my own choice. She declared I was experiencing a psychosis. I went back to the shrink three years after that. And she said that what she previously thought was a psychosis was in fact bipolar disorder. I went to her again and she said that I was suffering from manic depression. That’s when I decided to fire her. There was no good coming out of that relationship. Turns out she diagnosed everyone with a rule of thumb: Mood swings: Bipolar. Acts out of the ordinary: Psychotic. Sad: Manic Depression. It makes her job easier and well, patients feel comfortable with the knowledge that there is in fact something wrong with them and while whatever’s wrong with them is in their heads, they feel tranquil at the prospect that it’s not in their head. That they were not imagining it. Ha-ha.
Whatever the fuck.
I don’t need drugs to induce psychosis. Whenever I sit down to write a story plot, I render myself mad. I dive into the deep pits of my mind where I’ve never been before, like those depths of the sea where James Cameron went to gather knowledge about his upcoming movie, Avatar 2. I think most people don’t do that. Most people aren’t writers, to be honest. If it were easy, everyone would do it. I think part of the writer’s job description is to come out unscathed from the sheer experience of coming up with and eventually writing a story. It’s true. We’re weird folks. Death satisfies us. What you consider the bane of all life, is the chalice with which we gulp the waters of the fountain of immortality.
I don’t need a shrink to declare me mad, sad or a tad deranged. I already know I am. It’s what puts the fun in fiction. It’s what makes my story emancipate themselves from the shackles of regularity and brim to the top with light.
What I mean to say is that, sitting in my chair in front of my desk, writing a story and going crazy in the process, that is what keeps me in my element. And I couldn’t be gladder, sadder or madder.