[Bleedingwhiteash] New post at Nott Road Blues

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Posted by Michael Jas. Murray:
Skinny Leviathan

   I had a dream the night before they institutionalized me, and what a
   dream it was! Even now, despite my growing confusion, it still remains
   vivid in my memory. I was walking the deserted streets of my old alma
   mater with a woman I had never seen before. The nocturnal firmament
   stretching above glittered with silvery stars painting the alien
   constellations that can only be seen in Dreamland. Despite the
   splendor of the heavens, my attention was focused on my companion. The
   T-shirt she wore was tight, forcing her full breasts to stand out in
   relief against the fabric. The longer I studied her body, the stronger
   the feelings became. All the symptoms I experience in the waking world
   came over me. A wave of nausea and sickly heat swept through my body.
   The pressure at the back of my head became unbearable and the world
   spun around. Then came the inevitable feelings of resentment and
   wrath.
   In the real world, these hot feelings always freeze and give way to a
   leaden melancholy. But things work differently in the Land of Nod,
   donât they? I let my rage take over and I pushed my friend to the
   ground. After tearing her shirt up, I began to roughly kiss her
   breasts. I didnât feel anything, but thatâs no surprise. As the modern
   philosophers so accurately observed, we can feel in dreams only what
   we experience in the waking worldâ¦and the feeling of soft skin
   against my lips was an experience Iâve never had.
   It didnât take long for my kisses to become bites. I tore into her
   flesh with my teeth, reveling in the taste of blood. Not satisfied
   with that act of sadism, I removed my belt and began to scourge her,
   rejoicing in the welts my abuse raised on her skin. The blood
   continued to flow until it was a river beneath me. The flood carried
   my dreaming mind into wakefulness. When I awoke, I felt sick and
   dizzy. My underpants were soaked with what I knew to be semen. Rushing
   to the bathroom, I vomited until the nausea passed. It was only then
   that I was able to weep.
   I needed help.
   The thing of it was, I thought I was going to receive that help. After
   two years of struggling with feelings of sexual violence, I finally
   decided to seek some sort of therapy. Employed in a job that didnât
   offer any health care insurance, I had no choice but to go the local
   medical college. The college offered outpatient therapy, which is what
   I wanted. The idea of seeing someone on a weekly basis appealed to me.
   Iâm not sure why. Maybe I just needed someone to confess to.
   My first call to the office resulted in an interview with one of the
   resident psychiatrists. He inquired as to why I was seeking help, and
   I explained I was plagued by feelings of depression and anger. When he
   asked me to elaborate on the anger, it took me a while to answer. I
   was ashamed, I suppose, and scared. But I finally confessed.
   âWhatâs so troubling about it is that itâs kind of sexual in nature,â
   I told him. There was a pregnant pause before the doctor replied.
   âAnd how does this manifest itself?â he asked.
   âOh, I donât want to rape or molest anyone,â I quickly explained. âIâm
   not capable of that. Iâm just filled with the need to lash outâ¦to
   hurt women Iâm attracted to. I feel nauseous, get dizzyâ¦â
   âAre you in a relationship right now?â he asked.
   âNo.â I could almost hear his sigh of relief.
   âHow long has it been since youâve been in one?â was the next
   question.
   âIâve never had a sexual relationship.â It was an embarrassing
   admission for a twenty-five year old man, but the words came
   regardless. I was surprised at how easy it was to admit.
   After the phone call, I had two consultations with the doctor. The
   first was nothing more than a quick interview. The next involved the
   infamous Rorschach test, whatâs better known as the âinkblot test,â
   during which I was shown a series of amorphous blotches and asked to
   tell the doctor what I saw. The inkblots appeared as a host of leering
   faces, devils with broken horns and demons screaming wildly. I saw a
   masked priest with blue fire sparking from his hands. I saw two
   hermaphrodites facing each other, each endowed with large breasts and
   even larger erections. Maybe I should have been more prudent with my
   answers, but I wanted help and I thought honesty was the only way to
   get it.
   When I heard from the doctor a week later, I was told a new
   psychiatrist was going to be taking my case. I canât describe the
   relief and optimism I felt. I was finally going to receive the help I
   so desperately wanted. I went to the next meeting with a sense of
   elation, firmly convinced I wasnât going to be sick forever.
   I sat down with the head of the clinic, a woman by the name of Hayes.
   She was middle-aged and had an almost matronly look about her. She was
   accompanied by Dr. Ebrems, the doctor who was supposed to take my
   case, and the young woman who had administered my Rorschach test. Dr.
   Hayes did the majority of the talking.
   âWe consulted with each other and have decided we really arenât
   equipped to help you on an outpatient basis. Weâre asking that you
   allow us to place you in the hospital for a bit so that we can observe
   you.â
   âBut thatâs not what I wanted,â I said petulantly. âI told you people
   that. I donât see what the big deal is, really. I told you I wasnât
   going to hurt anyone.â
   âBut we think you might,â Hayes explained. âThe inkblot test revealed
   a great deal of paranoia. It also showed us youâre ready to explode.â
   âItâs an inkblot test!â I protested. âHow could it possibly--â
   âOnce again, weâre asking that you hospitalize yourself,â Hayes
   interjected.
   âIâm sorry, but I canât. I have bills to pay, work to go to, I just
   canât. Iâm sorry, but if thatâs all you can offer me, Iâll have to go
   elsewhere. I donât need to be locked up. Iâm not the next Jeffrey
   Dahmer or anything like that.â
   âWeâre afraid you might be heading down that path,â Hayes told me.
   âWeâre going to ask you one last time to admit yourself.â
   âSorry, no.â Hayes nodded and left for a brief while. When she
   returned, she was accompanied by a host of guards in blue shirts who
   were armed with tasers. A feeling of unreality came over me and, for a
   brief moment, I wondered whether I was back in Dreamland.
   âWeâre asking that you go peacefully,â Hayes said. For some reason,
   there were tears in her eyes. Whatever the cause of her distress, I
   wasnât moved to pity.
   âI trusted you people!â I shouted. The guards tensed up and I lowered
   my tone. âThis is how you treat people who come to you for help?â
   âIâm sorry, but it has to be this way,â Hayes said.
   âSo be it,â I murmured, and allowed the guards to escort me from the
   room.
   I was too surprised, too shocked, to feel any significant emotion. I
   was bewildered and a bit fearful, but that was all. It would take a
   while for the feelings of betrayal and anger to set in.
   âHow long can they keep me?â I asked one of the guards as they brought
   me down the hall from the clinic into a series of room called the
   âCrisis Center.â
   âItâs usually three days. It depends on how you act in there. If you
   keep cool, theyâll let you out.â I nodded, satisfied I had a chance of
   escaping long-term institutionalization. Iâd lie like hell to get out
   if I had to, say all the things I knew they wanted to hear. The time
   for honesty had come to an end.
   The Crisis Center was equipped with a lobby, a couple of bedrooms, and
   a small doctorâs office. Cameras were everywhere. For some reason, I
   was surprised to find I wasnât alone. Sitting in the lobby was a young
   woman in a bathrobe, a sleeping man who looked like a derelict, and a
   heavy-set fellow with a shaved head. His bald pate was adorned with a
   tattoo depicting the Grim Reaper brandishing the inevitable sickle.
   After the guards had departed, I was told by one of the many nurses to
   wait for my physical examination.
   The bald guy studied me for a bit before speaking. His voice was
   surprisingly gentle.
   âYou donât look so happy to be here,â he observed.
   âNo, Iâm not.â
   âYou ever been in a place like this before?â
   âNo.â
   âSo what did you do?â he asked.
   âWhat do you mean?â
   âIâve just never seen someone accompanied by so many blueshirts
   before. Whatever you did, this is the best place you could end up. A
   hell of a lot better than prison.â
   âYeah,â I muttered. As far as I was concerned, the
   institutionalization was only a more benign form of incarceration. I
   still couldnât believe I was going to be locked up.
   My gaze wandered from Mr. Reaper to the woman in the bathrobe. I later
   learned her name was Terry. She was young, prettyâ¦the usual feelings
   began to stir. She took off her bathrobe and I noticed her shirt was
   conspicuously tight. Stretching her arms restlessly, she revealed the
   smooth skin of her belly. God, anything to nibble at that navel of
   hers. For a split second, my desires werenât tinged with violence. I
   just wanted to touch her. But that was impossibleâ¦it was always
   impossible. The hospital was no different in that respect. A chasm
   existed between these pretty objects of desire and myself. I knew this
   on a visceral level, deep down where consciousness sheds only a dim
   glow. It was in this deep place that anger quickly replaced innocuous
   lust.
   My head began to swim gently before I remembered where I was and why I
   was there. I gritted my teeth in frustration and pulled my eyes away
   from her body toward one of the cameras affixed to the ceiling. Could
   they see that I was looking at her? Could they tell what I was
   thinking? I smiled ruefully at my own misgivings. Maybe I really was
   paranoid.
   The doctor who examined me oozed with exaggerated cheerfulness. As he
   poked and prodded at me, testing my reflexes and obtaining my vitals,
   I began to feel faint. Telling him so, he asked whether I had ever
   been sexually molested. As I had told Hayes and the others, I informed
   him that Iâd never been.
   âWell, not that you can remember, right?â he asked. I shrugged my
   shoulders and sighed. What was the point of trying to tell these
   people the truth? Theyâd form their own opinions regardless.
   I spent the rest of that day in the Crisis Center. My feelings of
   shock faded away, only to be replaced by a deep exhaustion. Every two
   hours, a nurse took Mr. Reaper, Terry and myself out to a special
   smoking porch that was separated from the outside world with chainlink
   fence. My lighter had been confiscated, and I had to use a special
   electric lighter encased in a metal box. There was something
   inexplicably humiliating about using the little device. Mr. Reaper
   began to pace as we smoked, explaining he heard voices. For the first
   time, I felt afraid in the Center. It was then that it dawned on me
   that I was fenced in with bona fide lunatics who heard voices and had
   delusions. In time, even that fear grew stale as I lounged about the
   Center and waited to be transferred the hospital. It was only after
   the sun had fallen beneath the horizon and the stars took their place
   in the sky that my ride finally arrived. A police car pulled up and I
   was placed in the back seat. A large wooden club hung from one of the
   seats, and I idly wondered what it would feel like to be beaten with
   it. It took no more than a minute to reach the hospital.
   The moment I reached the ward, I was taken into a special room where
   an orderly demanded I strip. I was confused, exhausted and, seeing
   their gloved hands, I was frightened I was in for a full-body search.
   The idea of some large orderly sticking his fingers up my ass was not
   terribly appealing, and I backed away in terror.
   âPlease, donât make me strip,â I begged. I sounded pathetic to myself,
   but no longer cared. âPlease, let me have a little dignity. Donât make
   me do this.â
   The orderly assured me he was just going to check for bruises. I
   suppose they wanted to insure that I couldnât display mysterious
   bruises later and claim one of the staff had beaten me. In other
   words, abuse on the wards was not unheard of. It was not a comforting
   notion. Too exhausted to struggle, I stripped and surrendered what was
   left of my dignity. Satisfied, the orderly confiscated my wallet and
   brought me to my room.
   And what a dismal room it was. The windows were sealed off with
   fencing. My bed was equipped with a thin mattress and and a blanket
   that looked no more substantial than the average bedsheet. There was
   no pillow. The bathroom had a door that could not be closed entirely.
   The mirrors were all fashioned with beaten metal. I suppose the staff
   feared glass could be shattered to manufacture weapons. The metal was
   warped and provided an almost nightmarish reflection of myself,
   twisted and bent beyond recognition. Is that how these doctors see me?
   Is that how I look in Dreamland?
   It was not long before I was joined by two resident doctors, one of
   whom had a less than ideal grasp on the English language. They asked
   me if I was thinking about hurting anyone at the moment. Looking at
   them with fatigue-stung eyes, I answered.
   âNo,â I said quietly. It was the truth. âI just feel scared. I donât
   want to be here. Please let me go.â My plea was ignored.
   âWill you tell anyone if you have thoughts of hurting someone?â the
   doctor asked. There was no sign of sympathy on her face or in her
   heavily accented voice. Why should there be? I was a monster to these
   people, an aberration waiting to be born. I sighed and nodded my head.
   Placated, the doctors left me to my own devices. I lay down and tried
   to rest, but sleep wouldnât come for me. Instead of dreaming, I
   decided to explore the ward.
   Crazy people, I soon found, tend to be very friendly. Maybe itâs
   because life on the ward (no more than two intersecting hallways) is
   so limited. A new face is the closest the long-term patients can come
   to adventure and a glimpse of the world beyond fenced in windows. I
   had taken no more than a couple of steps from my room when I was
   accosted by Dan.
   Dan was an ungainly kid who couldnât have been more than twenty. His
   acne-ridden face was friendly enough, but I wasnât in the mood for a
   conversation. I muttered âhelloâ and went on my way. He ran to catch
   up with me.
   âI like how you said hello,â he told me and proffered a hand. I
   reluctantly shook it, drawing upon what little reserves of patience I
   had left and trying to appear friendly. âItâs good to see you here,â
   he continued. âKind of like seeing my guardian angel.â
   The strange thing was that it wasnât the first time I had been called
   a guardian angel. Back when I still lived in Pennsylvania, before
   moving to New York, I befriended a poverty-stricken man who was
   struggling to support his infant son. I made it a habit to drive the
   man around and buy his kid medicine. When he learned my name, he
   compared me to the archangel who serves as my namesake. I guess I fit
   some peopleâs conception of an angel. Slender, with blonde hair and
   cobalt eyes, I suppose I share a passing resemblance to how artists
   have depicted the archangel Michael. Never mind that I have a penchant
   for wearing black and have skin adorned with Haitian tattoos. Sighing
   to myself, I decided to give Dan a chance.
   Dan led me to one of the activity rooms where they serve lunatics
   snacks before bedtime. He began to tell me about life on the ward when
   a nurse walked up to him, rolling her medication cart. I asked Dan
   what the meds were for.
   âIâm all bound up,â he cheerfully announced. âItâs the hospital food,
   you know?â I soon learned that constipation was the least of Danâs
   problems. Not missing a beat, he began to chant gibberish about snakes
   and toadstools and god alone knows what else. In retrospect, I highly
   doubt the nurse was bringing him laxatives. I decided it was time for
   bed. Fortunately, my sleep was dreamless.
   The next morning, I met with a team of doctors who insisted that I
   take a drug called Giadin. I should probably mention here that I have
   a fear and abhorrence of psychotropic drugs. The idea of some pill
   tampering with my thinking scares the living hell out of me. I
   explained this to them and begged them not to put me on anything. They
   slyly hinted that they would let me out sooner if I tried the meds.
   Heartbroken and defeated, I capitulated and allowed them to drug me.
   It didnât take Dan long to find me again, but he proved far less
   friendly than he had been the night before. He demanded to know why I
   was in the hospital. I wasnât about to tell him, and he got agitated.
   The young man asked if I had ever heard the song âTom Sawyee.â When I
   told him I hadnât, he exploded. He ranted and began to sing at the top
   of his lungs. When the orderlies chided him, he went to the nearest
   pay phone and tried to call a lawyer. Iâm not sure whom he actually
   spoke to, but whoever it was received one hell of a sermon. Dan
   screamed about the rights of Mexican immigrants and a host of other
   things that concerned him about the state of our fair union before he
   angrily hung up.
   The next three days alternated between tedium and sickness as my body
   tried to adapt to the tranquilizers they gave me. I met a fat woman
   who had delusions about an old sitcom and was on the run from the law,
   waiting to be extradited to her home state. I met a young mother who
   had been in and out of group homes her entire lives. It didnât escape
   me that these lunatics had lovers and families, a fact that bewildered
   and angered me. These wildly dysfunctional people had been given the
   opportunity to experience sex and relationships, to have mates and
   children. I found myself jealous of nut-jobs who were delusional as
   hell and who regularly received shock therapy. Oh, I know. Given my
   thoughts and feelings, the nature of my symptoms, thank the gods Iâve
   never been given a chance. But itâs not like thatâ¦Iâve not always
   been sick. My libido was normal once. Itâs taken years of frustration
   and virtual isolation to twist it, to repress it and make it ill. If
   you beat and restrain a dog long enough, it will become vicious and it
   will strain at its collar with the desire to lash out and harm. My
   fellow crazies werenât collared and restrained. In some strange sense,
   they were more normal than I.
   Which isnât to say that sex was an entirely pleasant experience for
   these people. To kill the boredom of life on the ward, I attended
   group therapy sessions led by people who didnât seem wholly equipped
   to deal with a room full of maniacs. Almost all the women who attended
   these meetings offered story after story of being molested and
   sexually abused. I quickly decided not to share what had brought me to
   the hospital. Iâd have been lucky to make it out of those meetings
   alive.
   After four days of this, the doctors brought me in for my second and
   last meeting to evaluate me for my discharge. I assured them I wasnât
   dangerous, that I could control my feelings and that, the moment I
   felt like I was in danger of losing control, Iâd voluntarily return to
   the loony-bin. What was strange was that I was neither lying nor
   telling the truth. I said what I said, not knowing the validity of the
   statement. All I knew is that I wanted my freedom back. Much to my
   relief, they gave it to me.
   For a little while, I felt elation over the freedom I had regained.
   The elation quickly faded as my symptoms returned. Thatâs where I
   stand now.
   I know itâs easy and fashionable to demonize people who feel the way I
   do. I know that sympathy for the devil is only a fantasy cooked up in
   Mick Jaggerâs drug-addled brain. Maybe I should be demonized. I donât
   know.
   I havenât given into my feelings. Every day is a struggle between my
   good angel and my satanic one, and the former is still in control. To
   paraphrase Jeffrey Dahmer, I donât know whether I believe in God or
   Satan but, lately, Iâve been giving plenty of thought to both.
   If you look in the Book of Job, youâll find God boasting about his
   creations. Whatâs so unsettling is that he doesnât bother to brag
   about the creation of his angels. Rather, he revels in his capacity to
   create monsters. The Lord lovingly describes the ferocious Behemoth
   and the terrible Leviathan, two creatures that Catholic demonology
   regards as devils. Iâve spent my life trying to become normal, trying
   to be human. I want that more than my poor words could ever hope to
   describe. But my attempts have been consistently frustrated, and I
   find myself growing sicker, turning into a devil. When all is said and
   done, will God look upon me and be proud of what heâs created?
   David Berkowitz, better known as the Son of Sam, once described
   himself as the Chubby Behemoth. Perhaps that would make me the Skinny
   Leviathan. The bottom of the sea is cold and dark, and the waters are
   bitter with brine. Itâs hard to see your way down there because no
   light can reach so far below. Itâs so deep that your prayers are never
   heardâ¦theyâre just swallowed up by the crash of the sea and the sound
   of your own frantic pulse.
   Who would I pray to anyway? God is so far away. What about man, that
   curious animal who dwells so close to the angels, and even closer to
   devils? If I learned anything from my time in the hospital, my fellow
   men simply don't care. Helping me is the farthest thing from their
   minds. They want nothing more than to drug me, pull my fangs, and
   congratulate themselves for killing another monster while it still
   slept in the womb.
   That womb is very, very cold.
   Why does it have to be so cold in the Land of Dreams?