My Descent Into Madness Only Took 13 Letters
At least every one of them were spelled correctly.
It didn't happen all at once. Like a good cheese or a neglected houseplant, mental necrosis takes time. You don't just wake up and come to the realization that you need a check-up from the neck-up. Madness is inched towards.
In my case alphabetically.
I didn't set out to unravel. I wanted to take this passion and gift I've always had for writing and turn it into something enjoyable. A blog, some short stories, maybe a recipe that doesn't involve any actual cooking. Or food.
Maybe a self help book for other writers. I could call it "Write What Writing Writers Write When Writing for Writers Who Want to Write." Genius. Maybe idiot. But that's literally another story.
When I look back, I can see that my journey into madness had 13 very specific steps. The number of posts I've written: 13. Actually, 14 including the introduction bit, but nobody goes mad in the first episode. Ask the Hatter.
Tiny, innocent steps that nudged me further away from normal and closer to something best described as loosely screwed.
I'll take you through the process. Maybe it'll help you spot the warning signs in yourself. Or at least make you feel better when you read this in your bathrobe and tell your blender I'm unhinged.
Misunderstood
It started with my second blog post. Just a 1400 word piece called Attraction: Or How the Frankenstein Paradox Changed My Life. I thought it was funny. So did my family. My friends too, I think. Although, I did get some other responses:
Full disclosure, I asked myself the last two. That's what I get for comparing myself to a green, goose stepping monster with questionable neck accessories and stitch-marks in the very first post using the alphabetical formula.
Abandonments
My good sense left me. My friend Stewart stopped texting me back, so I texted myself as Dave. The neighbor's dog started refusing to make eye contact. My jokes got longer, and I overexplained them with needless words in brackets. (No I didn't)
I saw the guy on the street corner with the sign that reads "The End is Nigh." It seemed like a good way to build my audience, so I joined him.
But, due to an unfortunate typo and one or two additional letters, mine read "My Favorite Tie Got Hoovered Last Night. That Sucked."
Disorientation
I lost track of days and the clock in the living room stuck its tongue out at me. Supper happened at 4:11am or not at all.
The fake houseplants tried to stage a coup and demanded better lighting and more watering, and my inner monologue switched accents every 2 to 4 hours. At least he won't be identified in a lineup.
I rewrote the same sentence over and over to try and make it funnier.
Then, I rewrote the same sentence over and over to try and make it funnier.
Then:
I red Sharpie'd the original in iambic pentameter on a grey t-shirt and wore it to to the grocery store.
Nonattendance
I started being late for everything, or not showing up at all. At first it was breakfast. Then appointments. I RSVP'd my shower "maybe", an idea that my wife said stunk.
My physical body was still upright and looking pensively out the window, but my mind had invited friends and they were off together, sucking helium from balloons and looking for the nearest Tim Hortons.
They all sang a Bee Gees/Tom Jones mashup: It's Not Unusual that I Started a Joke.
Exaggerations
Every story I told got a little wilder. What began as "I stubbed my big toe on the coffee table and winced in pain" became "I battled a mahogany beast armed with a pumpkin spiced latte and challenged it in Klingon. HOCH TOCH M'GOCH!"
I may not know what it means, but I hope I insulted that coffee tables lineage real bad. I know it was 13 letters and saying it cleared my sinuses. Klingon spells a lot of words with a phlegm.
Sanctimonious
Admittedly, for a while I began thinking more of myselves than necessary, to the point of correcting peoples grammar in public. I told someone at a wedding that the word 'groom' was being used too much in their speech, so clean it up and make it presentable.
I gave a sermon in my grey t-shirt at the grocery store explaining how anything that tastes as bad as Brussels sprouts had to come from, like, Belgium or something.
People stopped inviting me places, which was fine. I had opinions to categorize and facial hair to sort by alphabet.
Thermoregulate
My ideas were hot! But my wording was cool.
To properly manifest the importance of this thermoregulation of the creative process, I started wearing only a bathrobe and snow boots everywhere.
It worked okay until my thermostat got stuck on innuendo and I began rating drafts of my stories by wind chill factors.
Reupholstered
Chairs and sofas around the apartment started getting the best lines from my old essays stitched into them. It felt poetic, like I was repurposing with flair.
The few guests who did still come by were afraid to have a seat for fear of being judged or critiqued by a throw cushion.
I called it "feedback with function." My friends called it "alarming" but gave me kudos for finding a way to literally talk behind their backs.
Anthropomorphize
Things around the apartment started taking on a form of humanity. My stapler became Carmine, always wanting to give advice and spitting out things that stuck, y'know? My coffee mug became Consuela, and she was always giving me something eye-opening to think about.
Consuela told me I should start a podcast, and Carmine just clicked a few times. It was either applause or sarcasm. Probably the latter, sarcasm is staple with that guy.
Contradictions
Things only got worse for me and everyone around me. I started confusing people (including myself) by speaking in oxymorons:
I even wrote a guidebook on indecisive decisiveness. Chapter 1: Just Get Started; Don't Start Here.
Troubleshooting
I tried to fix it. Honestly, even though on some level I was enjoying the descent.
I Googled "how to unfrazzle your brain" and the results were disastrous, and in Portuguese. I was advised to buy a Himalayan salt lamp and listen to the recorded sounds of whale song. It worked, but I know that beluga was becoming romantically interested in me.
This reminds me, by the way. Next weeks post is "Never Ask Dr Google."
Unless you can find a way to rhyme 'anxiety' with 'variety'. (You can't. I stressed myself out trying a number of ways.)
Inconsequential
Nothing mattered. That's the conclusion I came to. So then I wrote 6000 words about how nothing mattered. I formatted it as a Choose Your Own Adventure book with a side plot involving espionage and lederhosen.
My CPAP machine blew hot air, the night turned against me, and my front door openly rebelled when I tried to unlock it with my mailbox key. I had nightmares about a writer having nightmares...in the night...on a mare.
Overcaffeinated
I drank so much coffee at one point that my mug filed a restraining order and I started vibrating at a frequency visible only to bees. I think I angered the queen. She accused me of droning on and on and on.
I named my French press the sauciest French name I know: Linda. I stopped using her when I realized she never really listened - just filtered everything.
Nostalgically
I began missing the old me. The guy who wrote about normal things. The kinds of things other normal people talk about every day. Shopping lists, anniversary cards, blogs about beer and Fabio's blouse and how owning a llama changes lives. You know, the usual.
Now I just leave riddles for my wife in the fridge and post it notes reminding me who I am on the bathroom mirror.
Conclusion: Congratulations
If you're still here, you're either deeply concerned for my mental health (don't be, turns out genius really IS next to madness) or secretly seeing yourself in a similar spiral. Either way, welcome. You now know the truth:
The descent into madness isn't a straight plunge. It's a 13 letter shuffle down a rocky slope of weirdly awesome. A waltz of misunderstood, a tango with nonattendance, a full out bat doo doo crazy square dance as a result of my willingness to be uber-caffeined. Yes, one of those words is made up, but they're all 13 letters. Go ahead and count 'em.
See? It's creative reclassification. There's genius in it.
Here's further proof:
Epilogue: Madnes Traction
If you're keeping score, (and really, let's face it, you shouldn't) my headings to describe the descent formed an acronym.
Lol 😁
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