Catnapped and Doggone
Physician heal thyself. Okay, so no medical school has given me a diploma and no state would be, excuse the technical terminology, crazy enough to give me a license to practice. I also think this is a bit like the attorney who represents himself – you have a fool for a client. Since fool isn’t a formal diagnosis (but, man it does sound about right), I’ll have to spend a little couch time to try to intuit my deepest darkest psychological issues.
Forget the couch. There’s no way to write in that position. And it’s not all really my mom’s fault. Most of it, sure. I am not adopted. Although that’s not her fault either since I know for sure we can trace back some serious crazy at least a couple of generations and she wasn’t adopted, either. Nope, traditional Freudian theory isn’t going to work here.
I could try the ink blot test. The problem is they all look like ink blots. Maybe they shouldn’t call it the ink blot test and stick with Rorschack. No, that wouldn’t work either. It makes me think of that guy in Welcome Back, Kotter with the pushy pick me and bad hair. Frankly, next to him I look positively sane. Not an easy task. When I don’t think of the ink blots as, well, ink blots I think they looked like smashed insects. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
Kafka. Metamorphoses. Insects evolving into higher forms of life as a metaphor for the transformation of the human psyche through intellectual challenge and an openness to new experience. The only problem there is that I really do just think of the blots as bottom of the shoe higher life form stomps lower life form. It’s just in my head. I’m actually one of those relocate spider people who transplant non-paying residents to their natural state rather than commit unprovoked murder of a species who exponentially outnumbers mine. But it’s dark, right? To see a bad Bic as death? Maybe it’s a symptom? It doesn’t seem enough to lead to a diagnosis all by itself.
So what other indicators exist? Hmm. Let’s see. I see all inanimate objects as potential weapons. The crystal ash tray (it’s got to have some purpose, right?), the lamp cord, the ice tongs – all have potential. Of course, I could be defending myself from an intruder on the most serene Hawaaiian island, Maui, whose psychosis has been documented, medicated and jumped the shark to physical aggression. Nope, that seems more like his issue than mine and shouldn’t delicate little me be allowed to defend herself in her own suite at the Grande Wailea?
I have asked “friends” to ride in the trunk of my car so I can hear what it sounds like to have them fighting to get out. I have chased others up dark stairs and then openly discussed if I were a knife-wielding villain whether or not they would survive the jump to the pool three floors below. I once had a homeless man come to my defense when a tourist tried to help me when I was lying in an alley trying to imagine what it would sound and smell like if I lay there dying. But heck, everybody does that.
Okay, I’m on vacation as I write this, sitting on the veranda with an ocean view and a pleasant trade wind. I’ve just come from sliding the fabulous slides into various pools and went for a run this morning before it got hot and just as the hard body paddle boarders were stripping down for an ocean adventure. Maybe in Seattle in February I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, multiple personality disorder and psychotic tendencies but here I’m mellow mellow. And despite rumors to the contrary, quite frighteningly sane.
Thanks for reading and playing along with what is clearly a need medication now delusional disorder.