New fiction: Like tar, pt. 2

pt. 1

Like tar

II.

My mind’s need for signification is sticky like tar. When I was 11 I was getting into my dad’s van to go out garage-saleing or something and my mind kind of slipped between worlds and I had a sickly sweet feeling and sort of between what my eyes could see there was the ghostly image of a Candy Land game board. I was overcome by fear.

I think I have temporal lobe epilepsy, which I thought was the kind of Joan of Arc had, but I looked it up and I was wrong. I wouldn’t have even known temporal lobe epilepsy was a thing until I had a friend who had a real bad case, can’t even drive anymore. Déjà-vu doesn’t even cut it with this shit. I used to call it ‘the nausea,’ and my brain mis-imprinted this on that Sartre book, even though that’s not what Sartre was talking about. It’s like a glimmering unreality or reality between realities and my stomach drops and turns sour and I’m overcome by the terrifying feeling of having experienced this moment before. Everything falls into the moment, and even if you know it’s impossible that this is the second time it doesn’t matter, it sucks up your reality like a feeding black hole and turns it into this baby-shit vice-grip around your heart, reaching up into your eye sockets and down to your perineum. The official website for this disease even says it is difficult to describe for even the most eloquent adults, and damn if that ain’t the truth. Now that I’m thinking about it again, thinking about maybe getting treatment, I wonder how crazy I even am, or if maybe I just have epilepsy.

This kind of epilepsy can lead to a whole bunch of bad shit like depression and agoraphobia. I’ve had this weird, indescribable, desperate feeling of not wanting to leave my house for such a long time, which has been such an embarrassing thing to say that I haven’t said it. I don’t actually not leave my house, but I don’t want to, you know? Like every time I go for  a walk feels like exposure therapy. The world is just so scary. Last week in church I had an all-cylinders-firing panic attack and had to leave the second services ended. Man, what if all I need is Jesus and epilepsy medication?..

I am hesitant to linger on the seeming truth that I am severely mentally ill because it feels like I’m still wearing the old self when to be united with Christ is to put on the new self. But putting on the new self is a process, I know. And so must be taking off the old one. My mind’s need for signification is sticky like tar, and I’m afraid an apparent lack of faith will get stuck in it. I want Jesus to know I love him and feel his power, even if maybe I still need some pills. He gets it, though. Like, he could heal my brain if he wanted, but he ain’t here right nowϖ and epilepsy meds are.

My mind’s need for signification is sticky like tar. My mind’s need for signification is sticky like tar.


Like, not in the rational part of my brain, but we’ve been over that.
ϖYou get it.
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One thought on “New fiction: Like tar, pt. 2

  1. Pingback: New fiction: Like tar, pt. 1 | schlomosteel.com

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