VLVL2 thorazine

[Glenn Scheper]

This was a great insight, Jbor:
> I wonder if it's Weed who was being given those Thorazine
> injections when he visited Dr Elasmo's (228.20-5).

I hear elastic! Again, I have facts in my rucksack.

Thorazine was not my med, but it was probably what
I was given (a golden liquid, along with a blue pill
or capsule) just once, at a crisis center on the day
of my acute psychosis.

I have a gap in my memory, cleaner than the Watergate
tapes, now about the previous night. I last remember
standing in my bedroom, with earphones on, the radio
rocking, and my arms stretched outward, and reveling.

Next thing I remember was the next morning, how I was
tormenting my brother to type on the typewriter, and
I was peering into the gibberish as if to decode it.

>From the point that I discussed with my father how I
thought I had to kill him, and could not discuss, but
thought I had to rape my mother; the day deteriorated 
further, until I could not speak about anything, but
only knock two stones together violently in my hand.

My father, who listened to some psychiatrist on talk
radio--he'd a loved the Internet--took me to a crisis
center, where an old nurse presented me medications,
saying upon my hesitation, "Do you want to go crazy?"

So I took them, then laid down on a cot. Whatever
else I had been thinking about was replaced by one
immense thought: that I was a nuclear bomb about to
explode, and destroy the whole world. Each time my
heart beat, I thought it was the timer ticking off
seconds until I exploded, and on each heartbeat, I
felt like I winced, although my body was immobile.

Meanwhile, my eye fed on a glint of sun coming
through between a shade and the window frame:
He and I brothers, being nuclear explosions,
only mine was still potential, any second now.

The next day I woke up all fine, and spent two weeks
in a private hospital continuing to appear all fine.

This was funny: I was taken to a semi-private room,
and moments later a heavy-set little old woman came
in, and tried to snatch my eyeglasses off, so that
I fell back over the bed and was crying out, HELP!

Orderlies came in and got her off me, explaining
that she has a fixation about eyeglasses, either
saying, or I learned later, she'd had a lobotomy.

Now I can think back to the subsequent years of
mental illness, laying supine on the couch with
arm crossed over my chest, staring up like some
dead pharoh, and great sadness wells in my face.
But I have a tenderness around, and hesitate to
consider even trying to identify with the me of
that first night, to gain memory of that night,
if indeed, there is even any memory to recover.

Yours truly,
Glenn Scheper
http://home.earthlink.net/~glenn_scheper/
glenn_scheper + at + earthlink.net
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