This story has been expounded upon up to and past 6,000 words, and is awaiting publication release on KDP on Amazon. Since the beginning of this piece was garbled in the first place, I thought I’d offer my readers the amended beginning to look at in advance of publication.
We authors have our stories, and we tell the world whatever it is that we have to tell. Any author does that. People don’t totally fabricate a falsehood for any story which works well as a story. Especially not the good ones. What some of us wonder is how some of the great fiction writers come up with so much that is so real, and yet so much that is imaginary at the same time? It’s a skill I never acquired.
Some writers make their worlds out of their memories. Yet, any good reader knows the difference between fiction and autobiography, even if they don’t know the author personally. What the author does with his own personal conscience is his own business. When the world already knows what a man is going to say, before he says it, they are not listening anymore.
The great songwriter, Paul Simon, says that a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest. So, after being censored by a writing group leader for posting an add of one of my stories, I’m feeling a little bit like spouting off.
I suffer from a chemical imbalance in my brain. That’s right. It makes me suffer. I’ve had it for forty years now. It takes medications and periods of time in hospitals. Oh, I know. If I never brought it up, I’d never have the stigma it brought on into my life. But after forty years of it, how am I to expect myself to be a writer, and write about anything else? You write what you know, just like the old master said a long time ago.
To have an editor to please would be my downfall as a writer. Fortunately, we have the internet by this time in history, and there are sites which accept uploads at face value. They’re provided free for authors at the moment.
What would you do if no one around you cared whether you screamed or not?
That’s the way it is in a psychiatric isolation chamber. They just lock you down, and let you lose control. You can scream until you’ve totally ruined your own voice, but the people you’re screaming at, either aren’t there or they’re not listening. After awhile, your voice can’t hold out any longer. You find out that nobody really cares whether they know what your beef is or not. No one else cares, so why should you? I’ve been done with my screaming for a long time now. I’ll say my piece here in the silence of my suite, clicking quiet-like on my laptop. No one can take it down after it gets up on KDP. Then the whole world can see my beef, if they want to look.
But my spirit is still not broken, not even after years of this trouble with people.
I lost my singing voice screaming. I had enough abuse that I ruined my own voice. You eventually learn that you don’t get out of that room until you’re quiet for a long time. You are free to lose control of yourself all you want to in a quiet room. You just have to calm down before you can hope to get out of that room again. I am the voice of one man speaking quiet-like in a suite at assisted living. If I lose control here, they’ll have me locked up. I have a chemical imbalance in my brain.
That’s why they call it the quiet room. You can make all the noise you want to. When they’re certain you’re done losing control, they’ll think about letting you back out onto the locked ward with all the other patients again. They aren’t in any hurry to let you out. That’s why it’s called time out. They call the room a side room and a seclusion room, too. Once you’ve been there long enough, silence is golden. Being in isolation as much as I have, has really spoiled me for any sort of loud music, noises or crowds. I’m a loner now, for sure.
I don’t even own a stereo anymore, and my TV is usually turned off, even though I like to have the option to turn the darned thing on when I’d like. I do amuse myself with my guitar every once in awhile, but I’m of the opinion that there’s too much noise in the world. After not playing the instrument for a long time, because I sprained my chording hand badly several years ago, I’m out in left field with the memory of the songs I used to play on guitar. I just don’t remember them very well anymore. It’s like they’re asleep in my mind. I’m trying to wake up those memories, along with the rest of my memories. My doctor told me I have a memory disorder. OK, if that’s the way it is, let me remember as much as I can every time I can try it.
It was a different injury which sprained my left hand. I broke my right hand on a seclusion room door a long time ago. That was one injury. It was about twenty years ago, and cost me a recording contract. But then another time, I fell on the palm of my left hand, and bent my fingers back, in the wrong direction when I fell with the back of my left hand trapped underneath my torso. My hand ended up with two fingers split open, with the bones showing, and bleeding profusely. I needed stitches to close them up again.
I had not realized that Aspirin was a blood thinner, and was taking extra strength Aspirin daily just before that happened. It took paramedics to stop the bleeding of my two split-open fingers, before they transported me to the ER to get stitches in my fingers. Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without the medical profession. I’ve had so much need for them over the years.
I had occupational therapy on my left hand after the skin healed up. I did all kinds of exercises with my hand. Ultimately, what happened was that years had to go by, and after using a walker for awhile, my hand grew flexible again. You may not think so, but falling and breaking my hip had a lot of positive side effects on my life. It helped me close my left fist better, and it seems to have helped my lucidity of speech and writing, too.
The last time I was in a quiet room, I was all confused about why the nurse put me in there. I didn’t think I was out of control or anything. She had left the door unlocked, so I walked out into the hallway, to ask her why I was in there. She wouldn’t answer my question. She said that if I came out of the quiet room one more time before she came to get me, she would lock me in. That’s what you get when you have a memory disorder from childhood, and a chemical imbalance in your brain. Trouble you don’t understand.
If you’ve got a memory disorder from clear back in childhood, it means someone disrespected the sanctity of your youth. No doubt about it. You get a chemical imbalance in your brain if one of your parents had a flawed gene in their gene pool. It gets transferred to you in the process of your birth. It’s not your fault, anymore that having blond hair and blue eyes is your fault, or having black skin and brown eyes is your fault.