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Thursday, February 26, 2015

Creative Personality Disorder

Before the days of blue tooth, seeing someone talking to themselves was a remarkable and even frightening thing.  As a child, my mother moved me out of the path of street people and other loonies who walked, ambled, or stomped the sidewalk, in deep conversation with… who knows?
I didn’t like being moved away.  I wanted to hear the conversation.
Blue tooth ruined all that.  Now when you see someone talking to themselves it’s usually just ordinary talk of groceries to be brought home, meetings to prepare for, and people to despise.
Sometimes technology just sucks the jelly out of the doughnut.
But thankfully, the insanity is still out there!
“My name is Headley, and I have CPD.” (Creative Personality Disorder)
“Hello, Headley.”
There will never be a 12-step program for CPD, because unlike those afflicted with smoking, drugs, or Rosie O’Donnell infatuation, people with CPD are not considered mentally ill.
I know that for a fact because my imaginary friend (who is very smart and dresses entirely in hula hoops,) told me, and he would never steer me wrong.  
Most of us with CPD are just as bat-sh_t crazy as your typical street person, but we are considered social acceptable in our delusional miasma.
That really pisses us off.
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with you – you’re just creative.  I think it’s wonderful how you come up with so many interesting things.”
Yeah, it’s wonderful how I’ve got thousands of voices in my head.  Some of those voices are harboring grudges that make Jennifer Anniston’s feelings about Brangalina look tame.
Many of the voices are not only murderers, but are constantly pleading with me to let them kill more.
Some of the voices are the ghosts of those murdered, screaming for revenge.
Yeah – it’s all one big happy place.  We with CPD vomit our illness out in books, paintings, sculpture, movies, Broadway shows, and creepy little blogs.  We smear the culture with zombies, demon possession and Kardashians.
We should be considered a public menace.  Instead society has decided to celebrate one tenth of one percent of us and make us far wealthier than our unbalanced personalities can process.
The rest of us, society starves to death.
Okay – maybe we’re not the only sick ones out there.  Maybe society has a compulsion to stir, facilitate, exacerbate (no – not a dirty word,) our dark and self-destructive obsessions for their own amusement.  Perhaps society enjoys the suffering of creative personalities even more than the crap we spew out.
So as you come across a writer wandering aimlessly muttering words like – a guillotine would be a good way to kill them all, you can pat us on the head and encourage our madness if you want.
But then again, can you be certain we’re just talking about fiction?


Oppressing certain segments of society almost always works out great!