Monday, February 27, 2012

Improperly Diagnosed

So I was doing ok for a little while there, probably. I suppose I’m at a poor vantage point to judge. Regardless of how I had been up to that point, I read Joseph’s comment and was insanely worse. I had a reasonably violent panic attack.
I sat there for what felt like forever reading the comment over and over. The first time I read it I thought he was insulting me, the second time I thought he saying something playful that just went over my head, and the third time I thought he was threatening me. It went back and forth like that until I was frustrated enough to chuck the laptop at the doctor.

I rolled over and tried to go to sleep. That was quickly interrupted by the doctor pushing the laptop in my face and insisting that I needed to answer the comment now. So I had to keep going over the comment trying to force a response but it’s very hard to respond to something with no fixed meaning. As soon as I finally responded I read the comment again and just knew my response was gibberish. The whole time the doctor kept asking me stupid questions about my thoughts and what I was doing.
It wasn’t until Josephs second comment that the fog started to clear and I was able to think clearly again. It wasn’t until this point that I realized the doctor had been intentionally fucking with me to make me do something stupid. So I grabbed his wrist and started twisting until his arm snapped. I have not heard a more satisfying snap in a long time. His girlish scream was good too.

Suddenly the doctor started saying things. They seemed random at first and they were hard to understand over his sobbing. Then I realized he was spewing secrets. Answering questions I hadn’t asked. I guess he thought I was going to kill him or something and was trying to give me a reason not to? I don’t know that something like that could have stopped me had I decided I was going to kill him. Either way I snapped his other arm as a little favor for my superiors. I figured the only one who was going to be in bigger shit than me for breaking his arm was him for spilling some of their stupid secrets.

There were some talks with my overseers after that. As it turned out the doctor wasn’t a proper medical doctor. He was a psychiatrist. He’d been evaluating if I was a controllable asset. Then the doctor and my superiors had a conversation on their own. This takes us back to the title of the post. The doctor came back with a little speech prepared about how I had been misdiagnosed those long years ago.
He explained that when it was determined that I was afraid of people, it was during a time in my life when, socially, I was only around proxies. It has apparently been newly determined, through observation of my interactions with runners and my panic attacks in response to Joseph, that it is proxies that I fear. That it is very specifically proxies.  

He was very happy to inform me that this has made me an uncontrollable asset; that I was a liability and a degenerate. He was still going when I finally punched him in the gut. I proceeded to pin him down and started twisting his leg until I heard something snap. Then I threw the moron out of my room. I suppose it’s time to move. I’m not running though. I just don’t want to be around when they find that shit head’s body. Someone will start asking questions.

I’ll be waiting in that building I tried to burn down. 
Send someone strong. I want a beautiful death.
"Ugly Duck" out.


  1. In response to your label...
    "They say dieing only hurts once."
    I believe I must disagree.

    Please do not die, my friend.

    1. I shouldn't have ever e-mailed you. Becoming your friend just to be lost feels... rude?

    2. I disagree.
      You are already giving up.
      I say you channel some Konaa
      and give it all you have got.

    3. Haha. I would love to go screaming into the fight with fire and Kanji magically shooting up around me. I think I'm gonna try to rig some pyrotechnics.

  2. Oh my god, your posting format is eye-raping. Please, please change it for the sake of your readers. We might not automatically hate you for the font and the terrible paragraph spacing if you do.