Black Phoenix
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2002-12-18 06:27:25 (UTC)

What is Lost

The MD allocated to me in order to improve my life has
decided that I have undergone turmultuous changes. He has
indicated that I am no longer depressed, and that my life
seems to be relatively stable. He informs me that I have a
healthy amount of activities, friends and interests. He
also recommends that I come in to see him four times a
week, because I am obviously so troubled. Another thing he
has informed me of is the fact that I recieved so many
mixed messages that I tend to get confused and unable to
make decisions or concrete opinions and views.

So, I am better, according to professional, outside
opinion. To my father I have always been better. I never
was amiss, just slightly misguided, but ultimately
travelling towards whatever respectable fate I have. To my
mother I will never be better. I cannot be well, otherwise
she will have nothing to be angry at, and nothing to
manipulate. In her eyes, I do not deserve to be well. To my
friends I suppose I have either always been well or I have
never been well. I don't know what they think of me. I am
afraid to.

But am I well? Do I think so? Obviously that is the most
important opinion there is, as it will inevitably influence
all the desicions I make in the future. I cannot have some
things without knowing I am better. So, am I well, me?

How the hell should I know? As you no doubt realize from
reading the above, I cannot rely on the opinions of the
people in my life. It is up to me to analyze my own mind
and actions, and then come to what I would believe a normal
persons diagnosis is. I have to think like a normal person,
because obviously they are the embodiment of well. If
everyone was like me, I would be well, of course. It is a
measure of conformity, how well you are, how much you can
cease to exist as an individual. If I become like the rest
of the people around me, I will be cured. I must strive to
be percieved as the norm or above.

Am I well? Of course I am. To me I am well. I am me. No one
else. I am everyone and everyone is me. I am the average of
my world. I am both extremes, and everything in between. I
fit in perfectly with myself. I am the embodiment of
everything well, for well is the only thing that exists in
my world. How can I possibly be sick? It is like the
villian considering themselves evil. To them it is the only
thing that they can reasonably be. To me, there is only one
thing I can be: me.

Am I well? Of course not. I do not follow the paterns of
the people around me. The popular perception of what I
should be is not what I follow. My ideas, my thoughts, my
actions do not follow with what the world wants. I am not
well, because the reality around me is defined to be
something that is not what I am. I am in the middle of a
symphony that is not playing the same song that I am. If I
were alone, it would sound fine.

Is my music ugly? It is in the mind of the listener to
judge. I play whatever music I can, for I know no other.

So, I suppose I am losing myself, and becoming a part of
the endless stream of blandness that is the plague our
world wastes itself on. I can be happy that way, if I
choose, for after awhile I will cease to play what
beautiful music I knew, and will fall in with the rest of
the orchestra to follow the tune they decide.

I could be sad, too, for in the back of my mind I will
always know that I could have been so much more. So much
beauty in my head died, and my mind does not even know how
to begin to regain it. This is what haunts me, even now.
What could I have done?
Who could I have become?

Perhaps I should tread the easy path, but it seems so hard
to find it.

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