He went on to tell me, "We are what we release, not what the world sees."
Until we become wise to his concept, settling to be a face in the crowd is our only option.
My discharge meeting will take place in several hours. During these hours, I will explain the events preceding my institutionalization, and the therapy performed on me that helped me reach my freedom. You will not want to hear everything I have to say, but life isn't about what we want, it's about what we need.
*
After my body was revived at the hospital, the doctors ran a series of exhausting tests to explain what caused my heart to fail. The test results didn't indicate anything, other than what I already knew, I was healthy. Furthermore, not a single professional could provide a medical explanation of what happened. My mother questioned every doctor at the hospital, and they all said the same thing, "Your son is healthy."
Because of this, I was released from the hospital within a week. I was grateful to be alive, which was the first drastic change in my personality. Many things were unclear and hazy after I returned home from the hospital. Everything about me was different. I'm serious; I felt like a completely different person. I'm asking you to focus and concentrate throughout the rest of my story because I want you to understand who I am. This won't be easy because it wasn't until I received my second chance that I knew who I was.
The summer was coming to an end, and it was time for me to go back to school. Although I wasn't ready, I didn't have much of a choice. My mother was busier than ever, and my father and brother were still worthless pieces of garbage. My sister wasn't spending much time at the house, because she was involved with a boy with whom she was inseparable. It upset me that my family was disjointed like a glacier, and drifting away from solid cohesiveness. Even Andy, my only friend, meandered away from me. I was lonely, desolate, and forsaken in a world that wouldn't cater to my needs.
I was only in school for several weeks before my emotions ruled me like an imprudent king. The cafeteria was bustling full of hungry children, one by one, they got their food, and then sat down with their clique. There were many different groups of children who filled the cafeteria, but I didn't belong to any of them. I sat by myself and didn't communicate with anyone. Hell, most days I wouldn't even eat.
I was sitting all alone and wasn't expecting company when Andy stood up from his seat at the popular table and walked toward me. Occasionally, a teacher would visit and ask how I was doing, but for a student to demonstrate a desired stop-over was rare. I was bewildered to see Andy attempt to rekindle our relationship. Standing in front of me, with an apple in his hand, Andy asked, "Dude, what is your deal?"
I thought long and hard before answering him because there were too many things wrong with me to list, and I didn't want to disclose my secretive ailment. Yes, I had a secret. Most of you have a secret too, and I'll warn you, we do the strangest things to defend our buried guilt.
How did I reply to Andy?
Oh, I remember.
In an attacking tone, I said, "Eat me Andy. I don't come to your table and start fights with you."
In reality, Andy wasn't trying to pick a fight. Andy wasn't the issue; the issue was my distorted thought process.
Andy didn't appreciate my ignorance. After passively tossing his apple onto my lap, Andy said, "I don't even know who you are anymore. You're a totally different person."
No kidding, like I didn't already know. The thing was I didn't want other people to know. There was no way I could confess what was wrong with me. It was too risky, and no one would believe me anyway. I felt like there was a dark and sinister disease rotting the inside of my soul that needed to be released. I'm not sure why I reacted the way I did. Maybe it was getting hit with Andy's apple? Whatever the reason, I released a portion of my inner monster onto Andy.
Like a primitive animal, I recoiled from my chair and took Andy onto his back. I had both of my hands around his neck, as he resisted the blunt attack. I produced enough craziness to punch him in the face several times. I wasn't thinking about his safety or my consequence; however, I was troubled about one thing. I was using my left hand to punch Andy. I realize, using my left hand doesn't sound too odd, but I was right handed. We never use force, derived from violence, with our less dominant hand. Before I had time to figure out why I was using my left hand, a herd of teachers restrained me. I de-escalated quickly and soon thereafter; the horror show was over. Andy was taken to the hospital, and I was questioned by the township police. Luckily, no one pressed charges, but I did receive a three-day suspension.
Later, during the same day, my mother wanted me to explain why I attacked Andy. Truth-be-told, I didn't know.
My mother forcefully probed, "Give me an answer. Give me an answer now!"
I didn't answer her, but I administered an independent time-out. I stood in the corner of the room, facing the wall.
After my mother realized I was punishing myself, she said, "Shawn, you don't have to take a timeout. All I want to do is talk."
I continued to stare at the wall as I started to cry. I looked like I belonged in a lunatic asylum, but in actuality, I belonged in prison.
I did something terrible.
And the terrible thing I am referring to, I haven't shared yet.
My mother believed that the cause of my timeout and guilt was because I punched Andy, but it wasn't. My mother realized she wasn't getting an in-depth analysis, but at that point, she didn't care anymore. She was concerned about my well-being, not why I attacked Andy. I stood in the corner for thirty more minutes, crying like a baby, until I decided to go to bed.
*
My sleep was interrupted when I woke up at 2:30 a.m...
I had sweat pouring off my body, and I was thirstier than a desert dweller. After quenching my thirst with an entire bottle of water, I lumbered into my sister's bedroom. Although she wasn't in there, I left the light off as I entered. Strangely, I ransacked my sister's entire closet until I found what I was looking for. As hard as this is to admit, I was looking for my sister's black dress. When I found it, I felt like a kid in a candy store. It was by far the most elegant dress my sister owned.
I realize you are about to think less of me, if that's possible, but I stripped off my clothing and stood naked in front of my sister's bedroom mirror. I hated the sight of my undressed body, especially my genitalia, so I slid on my sister's dress to cover myself. With obvious identity issues, I felt the dress alone wasn't enough to make me pretty. I questioned, "Maybe I would look better if I applied some lipstick?" By the second, I was looking more and more like the ideal that was resting in my mind.
The fantasy I was chasing ended when my mother surprisingly appeared in the doorway. My back was facing her when she interrupted me, so she didn't have the opportunity to see the full spectrum of my cross-dressing moment. When I turned around my mother screamed, "Get out of your sister's room! You don't belong in here!"
I'm thinking, what the hell?
I was dressed as a woman, and the only thing my mother cared about was that I was in my sister's room.
Was my mother blind or just ignoring the fact I was dissociating?
Either way, we both had issues.
I felt like a morbid blob of filth, because my mother left the house before I woke up in the morning. She was the queen of avoidance. My mother turned her back to confrontation, or any other serious matters that were thought provoking. I was at the tipping point of my young life, and she couldn't muster up enough gall to hold my hand as I dangled from an emotional cliff. I was harboring thoughts of suicide, and no one was there to deliver me from evil.
I asked myself, why did I come back to this world?
I was more alive when I was dead.
I had two options, continue living as a diabolical entity, or crucify my own biological being.
I decided suicide was my best option.
*
My mother wasn't coming home until late, which gave me adequate time to plan
my termination. I thought about blowing my brains out with my mother's pistol, but replaced the idea with something less messy.
"Pills," I said out loud.
Pills wouldn't cause me to bleed all over the carpet. I had an aversion to blood. I hated blood more than anything, besides people not appreciating their own life. Wow, I'm a hypocrite, and I despise hypocrites. I'm emphasizing the appreciation of life during a suicide. That doesn't make any sense now, does it? Anyway, that's for you to figure out. My mother hated blood as well, so I was doing her a favor by overdosing on pills.
When someone writes a suicide note, they mean business. And I was as serious as a heart-attack. In today's society, there are many superficial teenagers that find their sense of belonging by classifying themselves as emo. For the older generation reading my story, emo means emotional. These are the kids who dress in black and over exemplify their issues. Many of them cut themselves, surface scrapes, to make themselves look pathetic. I wasn't emo, nor was I dramatizing my desire to want to exit the light. Those who want to kill themselves will get it done. I realize suicide notes are cliché; nevertheless, I wrote one anyway. I felt it was important to provide my mother with meaning.
My suicide note read:
Dear family, I've decided I don't belong in this world. The last time I died it wasn't on my terms, but now it is. I feel wicked for what I have done. I came back to life carrying more guilt than you could ever imagine. I hope someday you will be able to understand. I love you, and good-bye.
*
I was in the upstairs bathroom, and prepared to die. However, I was actually eager to live.
The pill bottle was sitting on the back of the sink along with a cup of water. I was hunched over with both hands on the sides of the sink, as I took a long hard look at my face in the mirror. I remember being thrown off guard, because I didn't possess the ability to recognize myself.
My heart was racing like a junkie who snorted blow, and my palms were sweaty. My inhalation was irregular when I swallowed my first pill, but I got it down anyway. With one pill down, I probably had fifteen more until my suicide was complete. As I popped pill number two, I was startled by a sound coming from my bedroom. At first, I thought, Shit! Someone must be home. I hurried up, and swallowed my second pill, before checking to see if my mother or sister came in. To my amazement, no one was there.
I didn't hear the sound again until I returned to the bathroom, where I prepared to swallow another pill. It was the most peculiar sound, and it was much louder this time. Once again, I left the bathroom to investigate the origin of the sound, which was coming from my bedroom. No one was in the bedroom, but the sound kept getting louder. The sound's volume and clarity increased to the level that I could make out what it was, and it was quite disturbing. The sound I heard was a voice, and it was much like my own. Only, it wasn't speaking. The mimicking sound of my voice was gargling, and it was imitating me drowning in a pool. My first thought wasn't on the lines of the paranormal, but neurological. I figured that the two pills I swallowed were causing me to hallucinate. I was scared, but not petrified.
After my hallucination stopped, I finally got back on track to finish my damn suicide. I got into position, hands on the sink, and then looked at my face in the mirror. This time the reflection looking back at me wasn't mine.
Like a scene from a horror movie, I violently flung myself backwards, spilling the cup of water and the pills, as I fell to the floor. If the auditory hallucination was a six on a ten scale of fear, ten being the worst, what I saw in the mirror was a twenty. I saw my sister's face, and she had blood pouring out of her eyes, mouth, and nose. When I fell to the floor, I smacked the back of my head against the bathtub and passed out. Because I was unconscious, I didn't have time to clean up the pills or take down my suicide note that was taped to the bathroom door.
My mother came home and found me unconscious, read the note, and then saw the pills. To this day, I can't imagine what went through her head. I always wanted my mother to be less distracted and pay attention to me. I'm pretty sure my suicide attempt spoke loud enough for her to hear me now.
Immediately, my mother called the crisis unit. As my mother was waiting for the ambulance to arrive, she did something that blew my mind. My mother said a prayer, or something resembling one. Collapsed on both knees, next to my non-responsive body, my mother summoned the big man.
My mother prayed:
Dear God, What are you doing to my son? You've taken everything from me, and you never show up when I call upon you. I am not asking for your help, but I am requesting that you stay away from my child. I give permission to any spirit who can help my son to come forth.
*
I regained consciousness in the back of the ambulance.
I was fatigued and half disconnected from reality when I opened my eyes. When my eyes opened, I heard my mother say, "Shawn, we're going to Mountain Springs Psychiatric Hospital."
Seriously, whatever happened to, Oh my goodness, I'm so happy you are alright. Nope, not from my mother, because statements like such, would require effort.
I was alright physically, but my psychological stability was in danger. I used all the strength I had to ask my mother an extremely important question.
"Mom, can I have a mirror?"
She didn't hear me at first, because of my mumbled drowsiness, so I asked again. "Can I have a mirror?"
My mother didn't understand why I wanted a mirror, but she complied with my request. She pulled out a make-up compact from her purse and handed it to me. I flipped the compact open to see who was staring back at me in the mirror, and the image I saw comforted me beyond this world, but there was still too much blood.
Chapter 3
EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON
Who is Patrick Lucid?
Considering, I know him better than anyone; I will use this time to introduce him. You're in all probabilities excited to hear more about my bizarre symptoms, but it is important to understand Patrick Lucid as well. Besides, his life is going to collide with mine, or is it the other way around?
Patrick Lucid, Lucid, or Patrick, whatever you wish to call him, is a brilliant man. If you remember me disclosing, I have a secret, you would also recall me saying, everyone has one. Although Patrick was the most enlightened character I've ever met, he had a secret. Towards the end of my story, Patrick will be faced with a decision. He will contemplate whether or not to expose his secret to uncover mine.
Who is Patrick Lucid?
I will describe him in full detail, but to sum Patrick up in one sentence; everything happens for a reason.
Patrick Lucid is a psychotherapist. However, he would refer to himself as an artist. Lucid doesn't have the ability to sing, draw, dance, take pictures, or play a musical instrument, so the artist label maybe misunderstood.
Psychoanalysis is misunderstood.
Most people practicing psychology will tell you psychoanalysis is dead, and they might be right. Nevertheless, if that's the case, then it is Patrick's responsibility to have it (psychoanalysis) rise from the ashes. I figured if Patrick could bring life to an entire pseudo-science, then he could open the door to my freedom and ultimately, my second chance.
Patrick has spent his entire life developing a psychoanalytic theory based on psychic determinism. Lucid's version of psychic determinism bleeds through the boundaries of the mind and into the spiritual realm. His concept of the mind explains everything happens for a reason. When Patrick says everything, he means everything, from the most minuscule to the utmost cataclysmic. He would tell you, Reasons aren't easily discovered, and most of the time reasons aren't discovered at all. Patrick is right, and the sad part is, most people don't want to know the reason behind the mask we call behavior.
Patrick and I agree that people depend upon their eyes to determine the reasons for everything in life, especially in the medical field. Modern psychological practices aren't any different. People believe the brain is responsible for our thoughts, emotions
, and behaviors. But Patrick strongly disagrees with their attempt to justify means that aren't true.
He postulates the mind and the brain are two entirely different entities.
For example, Patrick once asked me to point to my brain, and I did. I was successful, and didn't have any trouble locating it on my body. Then he asked me to point to my mind. This task was more challenging because I physically couldn't see my mind. Just because I couldn’t see it, my mind that is, the ineptitude doesn't prove that it wasn't there. Consider this concept in relation to the soul. Many of you believe in the soul, or the spirit, of a person. You can't see it, but you know it's there. Patrick presumes true, People are driven from the inside out by psychological forces that circumvent our vision. I would never speak for Patrick, but I think he is trying to say, we don't understand what we cannot see, and we do not like what we don't understand. We are incapable of seeing the mind; therefore, we don't study it, thus psychoanalysis is dead. Psychology is defined as the study of the mind. To my knowledge, the word brain is not used in the definition.
Patrick is an artist because his patients present to him a damaged mind that he must sculpt back into shape. He depends on instincts, not pharmaceuticals, to strengthen his patients. I have heard many people challenge the concept of the mind, but only a few dare to give resistance of the soul. If you dare to challenge the concept of the soul, most likely you will offend someone. Let me tell you, Patrick's theory of mind is challenged everyday. The difference is, Patrick doesn't exclude them, imprison them, send them to hell, or judge them. He simply reaches out his hand to understand them, provide reason, and pull them out of a life of misery. I should know, because I was one of them.
Patrick Lucid is an extremely patient man, but he realizes most people in our society desire a quick fix. Patrick's profession is an exhausting journey that doesn't end overnight. Let's say you had a goal to lose weight by the end of the year, and you exercised religiously five days a week, every week, of the calendar year. The end of the year rolls in, and it's time to weigh yourself. You step on the scale, excited to reap the seeds you’ve sown, and to your disillusion, you didn't lose a single pound. For most people this is a reality.
When Worlds Collide Page 2