My mind has been washed out with blood. An aspect of bipolar psychosis is often jarring mental pictures. I have shuddered with bulged eyes over gruesome visuals. Less macabre thoughts made me laugh.
Such images are usually instigated by mania and are involuntary. They began as largely carefree personal jokes and have escalated to scenes of profound gore in recent years. The former are pearls of comedic genius I wish I could put to good use. While unmedicated, I could often be found laughing my ass off to mental scenes that rival "Saturday Night Live" in its prime.
During a phone conversation, I was told that I was "pissing away" my college career. Instantly, I saw in my mind actor Sam Waterston in a business suit, wearing a maniacal grin while urinating off of a painter's ladder. In the background was a grassy valley and a bright blue sky as an unshown female sang "pissing away" in an operatic voice. "I'm hanging up now," the caller said in response to my roaring laughter.
I once visualized setting fire to my own head. Presumably, this would be accomplished by applying gasoline to the area. Hysterical laughter consumed me over this jolt of inspiration. Unfortunately, all visuals can't be a fleeting joy ride.
In a virtually solitary flash of precociousness, I visualized lacerating my schoolteacher's face with a pocketknife after vaguely assaulting her. Fantasy may have been a factor. I was nine years old. I didn't really get visuals at that age, but weapons, blood, mutilation and even suicide were staples of my short-lived drawing hobby. In retrospect, it seems that I may have predicted the psychosis that would harangue me a decade later.
Last year or whenever, I was in my mother's kitchen, helping out for a family gathering. I waited for my grandmother to clear away from the sink so I could discard a large knife. The situation inspired a visual of me stabbing my grandmother in the back three times. The first thrust drew a terrified scream as a deluge of blood spurted upwards and in my direction. She showed ultimate shock as her face made a quarter turn towards me and I swiftly completed the act. Mortified, I cringed with abhorrence and wanted to toss the blade. Customarily, I acted as though nothing had happened. I'll never forget the depth of the look on her face.
Family, my roommate, strangers and myself have all been butchered in my mind. In the past, I always told doctors that I had no thoughts of violence. Being that violence was not actually contemplated, I did not consider these visuals to be thoughts. Some humorous visuals have entailed violence.
Babies are another problem. The infant would be so easy to kill, I sometimes thought unwillingly. For a while, I felt uncomfortable around babies for this reason. While petting my cats, visuals of strangling them appeared. Given the simplicity of murdering anything from a grown man to a kitten, I wondered how such an incident could be consistently avoided. It would be too easy for comfort.
My love of grisly movies is illustrative of the fact that I have come to accept harrowing visuals. The torturous bloodbath that is "Saw II" drew from me the same response as a Denis Leary rant. I seemed to be the only patron in the theater cheering when a man had his throat severed with a hacksaw. The carnage, the gut wrenching agony--what sick bastard could resist? The actors' terrified screams were simply piquant. Hannibal Lecter beating that Tennessee cop to death with a nightstick was among the most beautiful moments in the annals of cinematography.
These and other images come as less of a shock these days, and following my doctor's orders has helped greatly. I regard this facet of my mind as a blessing. Visuals elevate my mind a notch higher than the brains of those unfortunates who drone through life imagining very little. This talent may benefit me as a petty artist. Differentiating bloodlust from psychosis, I cease to fear these visuals. Confidence has supplanted guilt.