Asylums. (Patreon)

There are asylums. There are asylums surrounded by topiary. And holding long needles within themselves. Needle shaped "instruments." And doctors in white. And chess.

When it gets bad, I can't talk.

I can only lay out cleaning supplies.

I can only watch as I cut my own face in front of the mirror. This part is not nearly so precise and careful as the laying out of the supplies. I'm watching myself do this. I can't feel the anger, but I can see it in those slashes. In the faster and deeper and faster and deeper gouging. Always moving closer to my eye. Whoever that is, they don't seem to like me very much.

I don't think the asylums will fix me. First of all, they're gone. There's no bus that'll take me back to the 1940s. And yes, yes, they were nightmares. Horrible places. No autonomy. Reality.

But, my brain goes, maybe in an asylum you can just get through the day. There's people around to make sure you haven't got a knife. There's no feeling that you've let yourself down by not working. By not creating. By not producing.

It's a fantasy. An idealized place where sometimes I imagine they give me structure, and that is what I need. Sometimes I imagine it is a place that will finally teach me to accept no structure at all. Sometimes it seems safe. Sometimes it is an acknowledgement that my troubles are real. Why else would there be so many terrifying instruments?

Sometimes I want them to lock me up. For my own good.

But I know better, and to be honest, knowing better feels shitty.

Joey