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Coming Out Crazy April 14, 2016

Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, The Narrative, The Spectrum, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.

I have never shied away in this space from discussing my personal situation. It makes for a strange mix, the literary stuff–Odd Words the occasional poem, the quotes–and a personal journal I chose to share publicly, mixed with quotes and brief essays of a highly personal nature.

Today I took the 2013-2014 piece “Confessions of a Pill Eater” and published here as a page. posted it to Medium. Yes, writer ego played a part but I did it for the same reason I went through the process of reporting what I consider an accidental overdose when I went through a change of generic medications for spectrum disorder. I have a story to tell about mental health and Big Pharma and what that means to a creative person, and I am not afraid to tell it.

Fear is death to an essayist. No topic should be taboo, particularly if one tends toward the personal essay. Now I need to follow-up the 2013-2014 installment with the 2016 installment: the new diagnosis, the new pills, the accidental overdose, the constant struggle for a balance between suffering and the creative impulse. Big Pharma and Conventional DSM Psychiatry seek to kill the ups and downs, the necessary mania of the creative impulse as mentally unhealthy.

That is not an acceptable choice to make. It is no more a reasonable choice than suicidal ideation represents a reasonable choice. It is really no choice at all. I don’t believe in the myth of the suffering artist but I suffer and I create, and if I must suffer in some way to create then I need my doctor to understand that, to work with me to ameliorate the symptoms to the extent possible without killing my creative voice.


1. Mark Romano - April 14, 2016

I feel you. I believe that I understand of what you write. I can not offer any advice because the best advice is never good enough. You have heard the muse(s) and you have listened. I know that you know this is no small thing. As you know, I lost my sense of smell and taste for two years. There is/was a psychosomatic element to it. I found that the puer and senex have to be held in consciousness in all their crazy ambivalence. This realization mysteriously touched my complex or tangle of energies, for want of a better word. Vonnegut said something like “that specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is a gift called the blues.” Deo concendente.


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