A Giant Glass Of Polluted Ocean...

I don't suppose that talking to your pet birds when you are little necessarily means you are weird or anything, but then I guess that wasn't the real problem in the first place.

I seem to have always had a problem with reality; it's like I don't really understand the concept of it. If something gets into my head and I start to believe it, that is pretty much the end of any chance I have of seeing things in a different way or from another perspective- and when you couple this with paranoia, chaotic thought processes, drugs and alcohol the results can be pretty sad to see.

The first time I remember flipping out and losing the plot completely was when I was about twelve. My Sister and I had been fighting about something unimportant when she goes and grabs my diary from it's hiding spot and begins reading excerpts from it, laughing at my descriptions of the boy who drank chocolate Moove milk that I had written, the same kid who I now had a massive crush on; she's holding my heart and soul at arms length. Something snaps in my mind and I begin screaming in a rage that I didn't know could come out of me, and I am slapping and hitting her in the face like a windmill until she injects me with something and I am immediately calm. I know this is what happened because I see the needle hole later, it is itchy and red, and in fact every time since then that I have had such an 'episode', someone always jabs me to quieten me down.

Does this really happen? No. Probably not. But I always check for the marks anyway, just in case. I often think that my family and everyone I know have conspired against me my whole life to prevent me from learning the real truth about who I am. Like that I was born a boy and they've kept it hidden from me all these years. There was no one more surprised than me to get her periods, believe me. And they must have hired a really good doctor for me to have been able to have children; who would've thought the technology was so advanced back in nineteen seventy three? I wish they could have made me look More like a girl though; obviously they were more concerned with getting the reproductive organs correct...

When I am not completly deluding myself I know there is no conspiracy. I know I am completely female. That's why I've never told anyone about that particular little fiction before. I know it's all in my head on one level, but on another plane of existance I wonder if that is why my Parents had to inform my Hubby of the needle ritual- for if he ever has the need to calm my hysterics. I'm sure he's in on it with them. When I am manic he accuses me of being drunk or high, even when I'm not, and always demands to know why I am so paranoid and defensive all of the time. I behave that way in front of a lot of people; my Mother and Father and Sisters and Kids and friends- they've all seen me whack out at least once.

I hardly even remember what goes on when it happens. People have to remind me of my behaviour. But I should think it is pretty obvious that if you feel like someone is attacking your mind all the time, even if they aren't, and assaulting it with innuendo and lies, and increasingly blaming then ignoring then blaming you, that there will come a time, eventually, that all the shit wells up to the surface and erupts like a poisoned pus boil. Think of my life as a giant glass of polluted ocean- all of the shipwrecks and detritus floats to the top like an oil slick, or like pond scum, whenever alcohol or drugs are added to the mix. I'm one of those people who brood and dwell well. Feeling sad feels normal to me, as does being lonely and bored- which are two diferent things, let me assure you.

I didn't tell the Psychologist Guy any of this because I really like to be perceived by others as normal, and I don't think it is normal to lose control of your emotions all the time, so that what you are feeling about yourself becomes all consuming to the point of saturation. When Yourself is all that you can think about, and you begin having thousands of conversations with yourself everyday, almost to the point that your whole life becomes a narration of the mind that can never be switched off.

I don't quite understand the concept of complete silence because my mind is never quiet; it is having deluded thoughts all the time; that my Hubby is cheating on me if he even mentions another woman's name, or that my Parents are keeping the truth from me about my true sex, or that raging voice that told me that my Sister had injected me with a sedative to calm me down instantly. This is why my Hubby calls me Spastic Bitch. Because when I am manic I can become nasty as well.

Sometimes I only have to look at my kids with a certain face and they will burst into tears- and no words are sacred if I can use them as weapons against my Hubby. After I've finished being that Other person and I am calm again I expect that they will all forgive Her in the morning for being so awful. And so far they have. Only the people who really know me have ever gotten to see Spastic Bitch in action; the Psychologist Guy certainly never got introduced- which might be why he said that there was nothing much wrong with me except for a 'few' obsessive thoughts and a marijuana 'addiction'.

I don't like the term Spastic Bitch very much but my Hubby has rather a limited vocabulary, and it is only said when he wants to hurt me, which isn't as often as I have sometimes led people to believe. There have been occasions when we have fought and one or both or us have ended up with a fat lip or a few bruises, but he is adamant that he's only ever done anything to me in self-defence. I can somewhat see his point, to a point, for I will often, stupidly, ambush him to talk to me when either he or I is drunk, after he has been asleep for hours, or after tipping drinks over his head- among other things. He's not one to appreciate the direct ambush- he doesn't seem to want to talk to me very much even at the best of times, let alone at three in the morning when there is a houseful of naked strangers singing Eighties music at the tops of their voices.

Humph.

Funny about that.