9:11 = 42

At 9:11 this morning, I’ll be 42 years old.

I was born at a hospital called Research, so I’m obviously part of an experiment.

I wonder if I’m in the control group or the freak.

Two weeks after I threw all my Abilify pills in the toilet in 2007, I experienced schizophrenia symptoms.  Sometimes doctors give that schizophrenia drug to bipolar patients.  They think it stabilizes their moods.  It never did mine, but that’s because I don’t really have bipolar.

When you stop taking a schizophrenia drug, I’m thinking the part of the brain that makes up paranoid crap and then believes it all is no longer suppressed, so it gets its act in gear and starts cranking out the madness.

I decided that all pictures of people who were not people I loved were magical spying devices through which “they” could watch me.  I decided that was why money has faces on it.  I decided #2 knew this and that was why we only had pictures on the walls of family or of animals (wolves, mostly).

I decided that I had been watched from birth by many people and was somewhat disturbed.  I was treated by my brain to a replay of every embarrassing moment in my life.  And then I was treated to another replay and another.  This went on for about three hours during which I repeatedly screamed “No!” at the top of my lungs.

Then I was visited by my mother who told me I had been a political prisoner.  She told me I volunteered to go into custody for 40 years.  I was 39 1/2 then.  She told me I would be free on my birthday.

I spent my 40th birthday drinking as much wine as I could hold.

Several days later, #3 came to Dallas to pick me up.

I went with her to Shawnee for a visit.

That’s when things started getting better.

I never left.

So, I guess mom was right.

I recently got (you may use the word “invented”) clarification on the 40 years: I was being held back — forcibly my jets were cooled — because if I had been happy, and successful, somewhere else, I surely would not be here.