First, thanks to those of you who read this. I have received some
comments, and hopefully they are real. Allow me to explain.
I'm crazy. Yes, in the high-school chum kind of "You're crazy, dude!"
way, and in the dude who jumps in the pool wearing a suit kind of
way. But I'm also crazy in the clinical way.
As a child, I suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD).
[SIDEBAR: A little joke I once heard is that, for those of us with
OCD, it's called CDO, because then it's in alphabetical order.]
I was heavily medicated before they really knew much about OCD. When
I was two, I was prescribed Melaril, which is an anti-psychotic. I'm
not sure what a two-year-old can be psychotic about, but whatever.
At about six years old, I was prescribed Ritalin (yes, I'm one of
THOSE kids), and Tofranil, an antidepressant.
In addition to all of this, the school system thought I was mentally
challenged (or as we called it in those days, "retarded"). Then, they
thought I was gifted. And that change literally occurred over one
week's time.
All of this, plus questions about my own sexual preferences, led me
to discover something amazing on my first day at college: booze. The
first day away from home, I drank a bottle of scotch. It progressed
and (Cliff Notes version here) in just a few years was up to four
bottles (fifths) of Jack Daniels a day. Yeah. If you know how much
that is, you're probably asking yourself how I was able to do basic
things like stand and inhale. It astonishes me as well.
I spent ten years in a rehab facility here in California. I'm alive,
which is a miracle. I received treatment for my OCD (the
appropriately-named drug Paxil), and was released from that therapy a
few years ago.
There's a lot missing from this story, but I want to get to the
now-crazy part. I've recently been in contact with an old friend,
Jeffrey, who now works for the Federal Government here in the US.
Just recently, I had a discussion with him while he was standing in
an alley behind my friend's house.
And this is where the evidence begins. My friend's wife witnessed
half of the conversation. My half. She confided to my friend that
there was no one else there. My friend Jeffrey was not there. In
fact, I've looked through some things, and can find no actual
evidence that Jeffrey, whom I've "known" since roughly 1976, has ever
actually existed.
If you're worried about my mental health at this point, imagine how I
feel :)
So I've been examining some things, people I've known, etc., and have
come to the conclusion that Jeffrey is not the only one. There are
others. People whom I "know" but no one else has ever witnessed. And
there is absolutely no evidence that they ever have existed. My
sister has also said she thinks I might have a mild form of
schizophrenia.
Now, a sane person (i.e. someone rather unlike me) might seek
professional help at this point. I'm actually planning on doing this,
but not just yet. You see, I've moved, my insurance hasn't caught up,
and so far there doesn't seem to be any risk of danger involved.
If you're still reading this, I consider you a friend of sorts, and
not just in the facebook kind of way, because you now know more about
me than anyone on facebook. As a friend, I'd like to introduce you to
some of my other friends, all of whom, as far as I know, don't
actually exist:
1. Jeffrey, known since childhood.
2. Jonathan, also in a federal job, known since college.
3. Vida, known since high school.
4. Woman on the bus, who, no matter what day or time of day, gets on
one stop after me.
5. Guy from Michigan with whom I had a long conversation in a donut
shop the other day.
6. Witch on the other bus (yes, she is an actual witch and her
handbag says Salem, Mass. on it). She might be real -- I'm not sure
about this one. I mean, this IS Los Angeles, so...
And that's all as far as I can remember at the moment.
I'm hoping that, by living in hell, I'll get time off when I die and
go to the actual hell. Hopefully.
