I mentioned to a friend the other day that I plan to come off my mad pills in a couple of months. I was a bit peeved by how worried he looked. Rose has been quite resistant to this plan too. The standard thing to do once you've been certified a maniac is to stick you on pills for the rest of your life.
I'm not into that.
The worst thing about this diagnosis is its retrospective nature. I
think of myself as a normal human being. But no! They charmingly tell me
I've been diseased, disordered my entire life. No, David, you are not an acceptable human being. You need to be treated to make you so. Dull, grey, sluggish.
I'm going to the shrinks this arvo to work out a plan for going off the pills. It's quite scary how much power they have, the enforcers of the reality consensus. The default options are to get drugged or to get locked up: Eradicate all disallowed thought patterns! Enforce circumscribed normalcy!
Once I go off the pills, they'll be hovering around waiting for the first excuse to put me back on them. So we're working out a plan.
One of the first questions is 'what gives meaning to your life?' Ha ha ha ha ha.
Fuck the medical profession is dodgy. Not that long ago they used to cut people's brains in half to make them 'normal'. And then experiment on them to find out how the brain works. How insanely inhuman is that?
Fucking norms. Any group of people is an incipient lynch mob, ready to deindividuate at the drop of a hat and act in unison against the perceived 'other'. If that's ordered, give me disordered any day.