I'm a decendant of a long line of mental illnesses. I've heard Bi-Polar has often been linked with creativity. I believe it. I love writing music, limericiks, taking pictures, doing anything creative. My oldest daughter (a Sophomore at Wake Forest) seems to have dodged the bullet, but my my youngest daughter (a Freshman at Elon University) takes after me. Her meds do good for her. Here's my story. Long, I know, but hey it's OK... .................. “You look just like Jesus,” a fraternity brother said during a toga party. His name was Andy, and he was the son of a preacher. At the time, it didn’t mean much to me; I had just let my beard grow. It was impossible shaving with my right arm in a cast from a recent crash-landing on my hang glider. “It’s probably the toga and sandals,” I replied, more than a few sips into my beer. I didn’t think much about it then, but the thought sure must have found a home deep within my grey matter. No shaving, no guitar and no written exams. Having to take an “I” in three tough classes, only to have to make them up again during the start of the next semester was the bitch. I was in college studying to be a professional pilot. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of my father and me flying kites and a few years later, line controlled models. He is my adopted father, but he is “Dad.” I had never met my biological father, and as a 20 year old junior at Middle Tennessee State University, I wouldn’t for another year. It would be a Psychiatrist, Dr. Barry Moore, who would make the suggestion to my mother, biological and always “Momma,” or “Sylvia,” that I meet the man who, like me, had lost all grips with reality. I finished my junior year, extra exams and all, without further ado. Also, I had somewhat gotten over my extreme shyness of the opposite sex, and on occasion, had taken a couple of college girls out. A big ol’ cast, hand painted with a target on the side of a mountain, is guaranteed to “break” the ice. That summer would turn out to be my last, free from mental illness. I worked that summer as I had since graduating from Williamston High School, in the farmer’s market town of Faison, NC as a produce grader for the Department of Agriculture. I basically dumped bushels of cucumbers and bell peppers out all day long, measuring defects. Hot, dusty, physically exhausting work, but boy, did I sleep well! That job finished up about two weeks prior to the start of classes. It was during these two weeks that things began to come out of my head. Some of the things were normal things; some were far from it. Four impacted wisdom teeth fell into the first category. Unfortunately, one became infected. More unfortunately, I became dependent on the prescribed pain medication for relief and to fall asleep at night. I also became “hooked” on the dental assistant’s special medication that she seemed more than willing to administer. At the time, this sure seemed “normal and fortunate.” In retrospect, it still seems pretty much the same. As for the second category; I’ve always said that if you’re going to have delusions of grandeur, you may as well shoot for the top. I guess Andy’s words started making their way to the surface during the last date I would have with the dental assistant. Hell, the last date I would have for a long time, period. We were on our way to a jam session (I had left my guitar at home, so we were just going to listen). I had been there a thousand times, well, at least fifty. It was 12 miles away. I got lost. I couldn’t find anything I recognized; it could have been the surface of mars. I knew I was lost and I knew I shouldn’t be. As I looked for something, anything, familiar, I began feeling energy, pure energy, a tremendous power in my hands and arms, but mostly, radiating from my chest. We managed to get back home, but I had even worse luck with her “special medicine” than I had with my earlier navigational skills. That had never happened to me. She left and I turned on the TV. I became absolutely engrossed in a Jimmy Stewart movie. The one where he was a pilot and he had to save a bunch of people. Pilot….. Save a bunch of people…… Look just like Jesus……. Man! Wait a minute…. NO. Wait 18 minutes. Its 18 minutes until midnight, until tomorrow. There are things tomorrow, very important things. MUCH too important. And they are 6 plus 6 plus 6 minutes away. That’s an evil number; the things I must do must be evil. I can’t do evil; I have too much power in me to allow it to be used for evil. I must use it for good. I must save people. What if my plane crashes? What if it crashes and there’s a really good man - a man like Andy’s father and he’s killed? All the people he would have saved; they would be lost souls and it would be because of me. I can’t let that just happen. I can’t be a pilot, it’s all plain, now. See, I have saved people already, just with my thoughts! I am powerful, more powerful than any other human alive. I am all-powerful and I have come back. It says he shall return, right here in Revelation. I wouldn’t choose to be “he”, of course not, what an enormous responsibility! Somehow, I don’t think it’s my choice… to be the “chosen one”. I must have known it all along. I am Jesus. “Feel the power! Put your hand on my chest. Please! You have to, you can FEEL IT!” I more screamed than begged. “Michael… SON!? …are you…what’s going on? You’re scaring me!” Momma had gotten home around 12:30 from a night out with friends. Since her separation from Dad, she had been going out more. Her pleading attempts at rationality and almost constant reminder that tomorrow was Saturday, the day I needed to pack for college, coupled with her newfound lifestyle, indicated an urgent need for my forgiveness. After all, everyone knows you don’t work on Sunday! And by getting me ready to go back to college (where I was learning to fly planes!), I’d be setting off on a 12 hour drive – work by any stretch of the imagination – on my Father’s (Immaculate Father, this time) Holy Day. Uh-huh! No way. Satan had put up obstacles on my 12 mile trip; I must refuse a 12 hour one! Plus I had already divined a career in aeronautics wasn’t in the world’s best interest. I must have read and quoted, with personal interpretation, every line in the Bible that night as I paced and followed my Mother around the house. I’m sure she became increasingly panicked by my behavior, and I’m equally sure I took her reaction as a sign that her first born was, in fact, the savior. “It does NOT matter what Daddy says! He and everyone else will soon know that I’ve got much bigger fish to fry than planes to fly! High on nigh starry sky… fish can fly but planes shouldn’t fry. Make a wish for flying fish in supper’s dish… Who let the cat out of the BAG!?” I asked at the same instant that Inky, our Himalayan, appeared from inside a paper grocery bag. Somehow, after all these years, that image, so vivid, manages to crack me up now and again. Only, now it cracks me up in the good way. Sleep, or even lying prone, as I once did in the harness of my hang glider, eluded me that night, the next night, and even the night after that. With each passing night and day, I became more delusional, more completely out of touch, and more entrenched in the reality, the very world that I dwelt. Little did I know (well I “knew” plenty, but it just seemed that no one else would admit to the same knowledge), I was set to embark on an arduous journey. A journey, not of 12 hours to attend my senior year, but of many years to finally be able to look back and laugh at a silly cat. Did I tell you he winked at me?
Cool. But I couldn't eat a flying fish. I think they are special. It would be like eating a hummingbird, to me. If you have some time, check out this movie (I loved it, myself): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3Kbgy-hf48"]YouTube - I'm a Cyborg but that's okay pt 1
