Diagnosed Crazy

When I was 12 years old, continued my primary school my parents and told them I could be crazy.

Frankly, I do not know yet, remember how those events. But I remember a frantic call from school to my house, and a subsequent parent / teacher / child conference. I also remember when exposed to dozens of tests, including one where I recognize what I saw in a series of inkblots had. Did you know that the inkblot test is only on TV? I can assure youit is not.

"You think you might be a little crazy," my mother told me one day, after I hunted down what was going on. I did not mind, for my mother's comment in the least, she said these words sarcastically to me, even angry. The way they spoke was more in the vain, "how dare they," superimposed by the big surprise.

The school insisted that I begin to regularly attend "conferences" with the school psychologist. Besides the many tests that I got, I was alsogrilled on my life at home, she wanted to know if my parents abused me. I was a good student, an obedient girl, and I was completely confused about my predicament, or why I was sought.

After many of these conferences, my parents were finally called into the school and we all sat together in the principals' office. The psychologist was also there.

A yellow piece of paper was lined pushed across the desk at me. I immediately recognized my own writing, it was a paper bya way of a letter assignment. I pulled her closer to me so I know which one it was, I always enjoyed writing exercises. I remembered once, it was the job where we had to describe our bedroom at home.

I looked with a "yes, so?" and I shrugged.

"Did you write this yourself or did you copy it from a book?" asked the psychologist.

"I wrote it myself," I said, feeling offended.

"Do you remember what was the problem?" I was asked. Ihas done, of course, and I told them that we actually had to describe our bedrooms at home, and what it was like to go to sleep at night.

The eyes of the adults were on me. The client looked frustrated, the psychologist looked impatient. My parents looked angry. "Is that what your bedroom looks like it?" they asked me.

"No!"

"Do you have this on?"

"Well, sorta," I answered vaguely. For me at that moment she seemed bewildered. They seemed not tounderstand the meaning of "fiction", and if I had more to articulate at the time, I would have told them the genre. But it was more complicated than that, as my descriptions of my bedroom were obviously untrue, they were based on a very real sense. I was using my bedroom as a personification of how I felt inside. Do I really need to explain this to my teacher?

But the primary thing I remember about that day is sad. Somehow express myself often led to my beinginto trouble. I wondered if they were right, if something was wrong with me and if I write wrong, what I had written was. I felt ashamed.

They asked me to read the essay. I was immediately back in time when I found these pictures, it has inspired me lulled wrote. I described the bedroom in a house of misery was. My room was almost empty except for a urine stained mattress in the middle of the floor. I was hungry and cold, I had a blanket that was thread-bare, and I hadold clothes stuffed in a pillow case serve as a cushion. The only light I had was a naked light bulb hanging on a long ragged line in the middle of the room. It had a small chain that I could reach from my seat in the mattress, and I would turn off my lights every night just after finishing my homework on the floor. There was no fairy tale or bedtime kisses. There was only stains and dirt.

"Is this really the way your room?" they asked me again more severe.

"No,"I replied, embarrassed.

"Have your parents send you to bed without your supper?"

"No!"

"Why did you write that?"

I had no answer. Well, actually I did. But I was struck with the terrible realization that they would not understand. I explained to my parents on the way home, and they understood. In fact, I remember them laughing a lot about everything. But the school treated me as if I had done something bad. It was a turning point in my life.

For weeks, they ran aSeries of psychological tests on me. What I loved most was trying to outsmart the test, and tell them that I know what the test was designed to find out know. I asked about the origins of these tests, and if I could use the books they had, so I was able to borrow to study them. I was by what she decided was crazy fascinated. They ended up lending me the books, and I began to study on my own psychology. But all my reactions only seems further evidence of the psychologist suggested that I was a littleinsane. She would often respond to my questions and comments with a sad, almost imperceptible shake of the head.

My real life was undoubtedly severe. My father taught me the word "monastery" when I was very young, and he used to love using this word, he believed in a monastic life, where your artistic self-understanding, not overloaded with possessions. Not that our house was physically empty, the walls were bursting with original art, the bookcases overflow books and sculptures, it was greatAttention to aesthetics, but very little attention paid to needs.

My father built all of our childhood homes, and they were equally rustic, often without many more amenities and luxury than a hut. We had no heat, just a stove in the living room, and we were in bed with a glass of hot water, covered in a sock to help sent us warm. In the morning, my mother would heat up towels in front of the fire, then run into our rooms and wrap ourselves in them, and join us for breakfastTable.

only the pulverized material, which I hated, we were not really allowed milk. We could use only half a toothpick, which was more than extravagant. Paper towels were used again, in fact, there was a small clothesline over the sink, where we expected to hang the paper towels were, after rinsing them dry. The food was often free, our table was often full of shells that we have the stones to scrape the marine reserve just steps away, or fruit from neighbor's tree. MyFather pick dandelion leaves from fields near our house for salads. Nothing would be reduced, he even cooked a rattlesnake once that he killed for our dinner. We were forced to eat cow tongue and other organs, which led to my dislike of meat since. We never had a birthday party, in fact, my sister and I had only one hit. The only thing special that happened on our birthday, that we Sarah Lee cheesecake served with dessert, and we would obtain, for a gift, something wealready required. Our birthday gifts were not treated exciting, they were something that should be made by such parents.

The year I was diagnosed as a gift crazy, I was a pillow for her birthday.

For months, I complained about my lumpy flat pillow, and asked my parents to replace them. Eventually in a fit of rage, I tore the pillow from his pillow, and filled it with my own clothes, at least it was so tense. And if I ripped my birthdaypresent that evening, hoping for a toy or one of a variety of things that I dreamed I was with a pillow. And I was angry.

While my room is not really similar, the room I had described in my article, it did my feelings about my room to describe the time. I felt lonely, cold and poor. And I have pictures to evoke that, and to express, dass

Still, I could not help but wonder if I could be really crazy. I knew I had many obsessions. I was afraid of black cars, and Ipeople believed that black car drove, were most likely abductors. I figured if I did not fully read any signs that caught my eye, I would die. Later I thought I had it back to read. And there was the annoying belief that my neck was not strong enough to my head.

I had an offer that "lunatics, lovers and poets" were really read all the same. I have never forgotten, and I was always fascinated by madness. I realized the idea of a poetic kind of sublime madness, and Icould identify as similar to the intense passion of romantic love. And both states, in my head were really a kind of madness.

The psychologist, who seemed to me that insanity had come to believe an escape from reality, a desire to disappear into the imagination, and she felt my need to write that particular article was the proof that I was not an understanding of reality.

But I believed just the opposite. I believed that I was not to escape reality, because I could not livepretend life that seemed so many people live. I was interested in truth and I was surrounded by a world of fantasy and denial. Writing fiction was the only way I could really get away.

But still it was just another lesson that drove me away from my dreams. It seems when I click on my life, I can countless examples of why was related taught me that the expression was poor muse, and why I became an accountant instead.

Today I have nothing against it, called a madman. I think insanity, in some casesis a prophetic insight, one that perhaps is a confirmation of the futility of life thrown. I know it's trite and reflect together the meaning of life. But I have decided that if life is really meaningless - that's in itself - is really very useful indeed. And write better, we can and our own meaning. Today, I think, again in my dreams, and I'll dream them.
I know. I sound a little crazy, right?

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