The Pickle of Psychological Death
Well, I had no intention of writing about Psychological Death tonight but it seems like it’s important. With the book coming out next month, and now having to talk about what happened to me, I think it’s best to tackle a few issues and face them head on. I didn’t know what happened to me. I just didn’t. I had no explanation for what I went through in those hours. Between the panic attack in April and the thought in May of pulling the trigger, I had my doubts about what I was. But seeing that thing in the black water of the Bahamas and then the pond, I know what it was. And I now know what it did. It was an epic battle between my subconscious and conscious minds. One was recon, one was the action. One would hold information from the other to avoid knee-jerk reactions, stupid chess moves. Each had a goal, each had a battle. My body was nothing but a battlefield for them to wage war.
Over the last several months I’ve reached out to several subconscious “experts”, people who have made a career on lecturing about the Quantum and the subconscious being connected. Well, I’m living it and not one of those motherfuckers has gotten back to me. I’m trying to rationalize it as they are academia, maybe on vacation, and I’m just a fucker who went through it and lives with it every day. But who that fuck am I? I write novels, passages to clear my mind, shit that probably doesn’t sell in academia circles. I’ve never had my brain or eyes tested since the event. I don’t need to. My eyes changed from brown to green, and I do not wear contacts. I couldn’t ever because I would hate to shove shit into my eyeballs. I’d rather go blind than to feel that that shit in there and watch my fingers tremble as I did..
I also don’t want some fucker messing with my already messed up mind. I don’t need x-rays shot across my sensitive brain to tell me what I know and understand to be true. I don’t take drugs and certainly wouldn’t take anything prescribed to numb what my mind now feels. Why would I? It’s amazing to see and hear the way I do, and to remember everything about what matters when I see someone that’s been in my life.
The other morning I was asked by a friend to go see my Godmother since it had been a while. Too long. And that’s on me. Aunt Christine is now 95 and kicking ass. I was told by my friend that she might not have that much time left and it was important that I see her. I did. I printed a copy of the book cover, got a nice frame for it, and printed out the chapter of the book in which she lives and thrives. She was thrilled but understandably concerned about her name in the book so it’s been changed to Christine. I love her and would do whatever she asks. At 95, any family member should do whatever is going to make that person happy. We owe it to them.