Fabrications   By  W. Bruce Watson
Last night in the aftermath of dreams, when indeed it felt like it was time to get up, that a new day was beginning, even though it was still quite early, I ran my mind over those days when I was a cold war warrior, when a small band of us, Navy Seals, braved the frigid waters off the north coast of Norway, in one of its myriad fiords, where we waded ashore in the dark of night, immediately beginning to scale the icy cliffs that came right down to the water's edge, taking more than two hours to reach its summit, the summit where the Russian missile base was located, where we planted the armor piercing explosives, not enough to destroy them, but enough to make them inoperative, and so with the sound of detonations ringing in our ears we made our way back down the precipice to the awaiting submarine. It's been years since I've thought of this incident, I thought to myself, or so it seemed, whilst in a narrow recess of my mind fathoming simultaneously, albeit dimly, that it never happened, not really.

What was striking about this recollection (and it was a recollection!), was the feeling that it might have happened, that I couldn't be so sure that it hadn't, though I was sure that it hadn't. A sick feeling came with the realization that I might be losing my mind, that my mind might be succumbing to delusion, to fabrication. Am I destined to end up like Tom Ballard, a character in the British sitcom, "Waiting For God"?

Is this but another, newer consequence of the fire with which we manic depressives are touched and with which we are intimately familiar. It seems that delusional psychosis is but a mere nudge beyond mania. That's the way it feels right now as I type these words.

Or is it my meds, i.e., the Invega? Five years ago, my trial of Trileptal was abruptly truncated when it proved to be driving me psychotic, although then my delusion was a feeling that inanimate objects were somehow going to spring to life and attack me.

I shall bring this up with my psychiatrist and therapist, this feeling that adventures really have happened to me in the past, when in fact they haven't. How long before what is merely felt takes over to become what is remembered? How long before my real life is lost in a storm of imagined events?
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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