Tuesday, October 7, 2014


When i recall my first suicide attempt i remember the sense of emptiness i felt. There was fear but a fear that was unformulated. I was in a psych ward, a general ward. Closeness with other mentally ill people, with varying degrees of madness, contributed to my suicide attempt. I inveigled, rather stealthily, around 50 sleeping pills and proceeded, precipitately, to consume them. And i fell into a profound slumber.

Waking up three days later after coma augmented that nothingness. I wasn't mystified, as much as struck with enervation, at the prospect of my aliveness. The numbness intensified and the rest of my stay at the institution passed away in that ubiquitous emptiness that brought me there in the first place. My memories, always unbidden, sometimes bring forth this interlude in my life with startling clarity, with scenes, hitherto deemed forgotten, suddenly remembered while at other times, the entire paradigm remains a blur, indistinct, insubstantial and unthinkable.

While i consider my suicide attempt to be, in many ways, a definitive moment, i realize, with retrospection that while an unanticipated fusillade crystallizes the concentrated intensity of past neuroses, the hints of madness lie far back, perhaps in childhood. I have read my psychoanalysis and i have a compendium of theories to give form to my misshapen experience. But locating an ontology to madness is not the path towards an alleviation of it. And this emerges principally from the indubitable fact that madness has no ontology, except perhaps an anterior beginning that began with us or when we began. But how far can we go, how much wrench from those amorphous moments of unknowing any measure of knowledge.

Perhaps that is why as humans we remain self contradictory. An effusion of unreason underscores much of what is deemed sanity. The fact that i, come with a history, a cornucopia of collective dissimulations, repressions, censorings does me no help. At best it suggests an unraveling of the constituents of our depredations and at worst, a conspicuous realization that my belief in freedom of choice is but a chimera. I have been dealt these cards and i must learn to play them. The outcome, though uncertain is also predetermined. And i'm a helpless marionette.

Which is why i firmly believe that a certain knowledge about the unconscious goes a great way in resolving the putatively irreconcilable. Or perhaps the irreconcilable is a matter of aegis and that at any moment the kaleidoscope of consciousness may realign itself, recompose into a different permutation. But a residual knowledge of these imperceptible shifts will, presumably, if not clarify the path towards reason at least furnish me with an epistemology of my own madness. 

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