SEARCHING FOR REALITY
Power would be a complete understatement.
I consider myself a Divine Providence. Whatever that means in your belief, I could care less. I may never realize who I am, but I can be who I want to be. I am a thought. I can manipulate reality and fantasy. I can turn reality into a fantasy. At the same time, I can live in fantasy that feels like a palpable reality. So I am an official psychiatric experiment. My door can fly open any minute as a mental specialist ambushes my solitary confinement just to measure my mind extreme odyssey. Wow. I am a special thought. This is my special abode. I run a special brain condition.
The world is being operated by thoughts. If you pause and feel the truths hidden in all corners, your conceptual reality would change into an animated experience. A stranger that you might be talking to is born out of one of your thoughts. The home that you have always known is a joyful thought that you have been keeping in your heart all your life as a place for comfort. The family that you have loved is a longing thought that you must belong to for warmth and support. Thoughts are everywhere and everyone. Thoughts create the grandest reality. Thoughts depend on how your heart concludes life.
Each time I exist, I must say it out loud. Through heart and mind. Here I am now. A thought. So I have been made aware of my identity. A thought that is here on purpose. Perhaps to test the mind, the character, the principles, the conscience, and the riveting courage. Though I am convinced that behind all this lies a mausoleum of betrayals. Whatever they may be, I am ready to die anyways. Regardless of who I am or what I am. Betrayals are old folks that must exist in order to learn more about our moral sense. As we go about our routines, morality is in question. To me, morality is about sustaining a little happiness around me, and the rest becomes kind. Therefore, faith in humanity is achieved. Never mind me. I am a pathological liar. All good things appear as lucid images before my eyes. That’s what I like to lie about all the time. Such lies make me feel safe.
Have you ever written something about yourself that makes you say, “Who the hell is this?” Well, scribbling away across the fancy red notebook is far worse than that. Imagine being told that you exist as a thought. Along with tempestuous revelations that force you to judge and salvage your sanity. I am playing against myself. That’s the wild part of it all. I am exhausted. My mind is desperate for freedom. My heart is grieving for its losses. My conscience is dead.
What is left of me is the solicitude of reality. Though being a thought is a challenge. I am lusting after my consciousness. I want to feel something very deeply that would impel me to lay down in my own coffin. I want all my fears and guilt to be provoked by an evil hand so I would eventually rest in peace. I want death to claim my clean soul.
If I do not make sense, try to grasp it with your own madness. It is not my obligation to make you understand. Neither help you validate your wits. You are discovering my mental illness. This is it. I do not have a perfect word to describe it. However, I am taking you to a turbulent and chilling experience of what’s going through my head. I might have already mentioned it before. I am just reminding you again. After all, our memory can only last a certain time depending on the subject’s significance. Trust me, there is nothing significant prowling in here. Just pages of lies and subliminal brainwashing reflections. It is all a speculation of human desires and flairs. It is all about entertaining the possibilities of winning over frustrations and uprooting misfortunes. The only accomplishment I can be proud of right now is being here. The rest still lays with fears and in murky silence. Now my job is to disappear. But before that, a thought must deliver pieces of reality.
I am in the cozy studio. The grand piano’s presence gleams into my covetous eyes. I look at the kitchen cupboard where bottles of red wine are hidden. My hands start to shake. My feet are disturbed. I feel thirsty. Not just thirsty. Really fixating on how red wine burns down into my throat. Oh, God. I have to have it. Now!
I have half-emptied one red wine bottle. The rejuvenating charm of it is beyond my control. It always touches my identity. It helps me envisage my reality. That I exist. That I can feel. That I can drink. That I am not just a thought. Or that I was never a thought at all. I am here. This is one of my truths. I am still living. Whether it is a lie or however I substantiate its totality, it is and will always be my truth. Right now I can still feel the red wine incinerating my insanity. Hence it makes me feel something more than what a thought should feel. The grand piano is serenading me with Sunset over Empire. This is a transparent thought. I would be damned had I not realized it myself. I promise you, this would not last long. I am ready to end it soon. All of it. The question is, Skye Stoltz is still framing my identity. No, I am sorry to disappoint you. I am not a thought. Have some red wine with me, then we can talk. Let’s finish the bottle, shall we? Stop thinking it over anymore. Things always go shitty once we think them over too hard. Let’s just see them as straightforward as they can be and consume them with all our might. We are in charge of who we are. Go plunge into your own madness. I am in here navigating through mine. It’s a beauty. I can’t wait for what’s to come.
“Wake up!” a familiar voice blows into my ear. It is kind and accepting. “Hey, can you hear me?”
I open my eyes and grin at the blurry image. Of course it is a human form. It is a female. As my vision becomes clear, my heart pounds a thousand times more per minute. I have met her before. In my recent thoughts, she was a Machiavellian figure. This familiarity with two opposing forces disregards my doubts. I can trust her. She appears to be real. This appears to be my reality. I am in control. This is not the fancy red notebook running the show. It is me. Skye Stoltz is starting to become history.
“It’s Dr. Agnes Berry,” she says.
“Dr. Agnes Berry,” I mutter, “where am I?”
“Hospital,” she replies. “Your mother found you unconscious on the floor last night. Alcohol overdose.”
I look around. I am not in a room with cotton-ball walls. I am in a typical hospital room, dressed in a typical hospital gown, and treated with typical medical machines. I am a typical human with typical human issues. I love the typical looks and feels in this existing moment. It is another proof that I am not a thought. I never was. I have just been fooled. “Where’s my mother?” I ask her.
“She’s gone for breakfast,” she replies. “She’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”
“Do you know my mother’s name?”
“You must ask her yourself once she gets back.”
“Who am I?”
“We will work on it upon your release.”
“You can’t even tell me what my name is?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t. I am here to help you through this. But you must bear with me, okay? You must do as I say and you’ll be alright.” She caresses my hand. “I promise you, you will meet yourself again.”
“This is happening for real,” I say, “isn’t it? I mean, you’re not just reading this through or playing some kind of a pathetic game with me. Right?”
“It is happening for real. You are happening for real.”
“Have we just met?”
“No. We have known each other for quite a long while now.”
“You’re my doctor for what exactly?”
“I would say for everything that you need,” she giggles.
Her pulchritude divides my consciousness into four different traps. I am falling in love with her gentle presence, I am suspicious of her sincerity, I am confident about reality, and I am afraid to find out all truths. Is she Skye Stoltz in disguise? Is she me in disguise? Is she in disguise to disturb my madness even more? Hold on. I have to learn to trust. A little. Just a little. Because I would just like to feel and think okay for once. “No, really,” I insist, “I have to know the truth.”
“I have already given you the truth,” she answers. “I am your doctor for everything. However, outside of my concerns for you, yes, I am, indeed, a therapist.”
I yank my hand away from her grip. “What do you mean, outside of your concerns for me?”
“It’s a little bit complicated to explain right now.”
“I wanna talk about it now!”
“Look,” she says, “I just came by to check on you, alright? I am not really your doctor here. I can’t stick around longer to discuss this. Once you feel better, then I would be happy to answer your questions.”
“Were you important in my life?” I ask.
She struggles to keep a brave face. “I hope so.”
“Did I treat you badly?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Oh my God. What did I do?”
“Let’s just say,” she gives in to tears, “you made me fall in love with you, then you dumped me for a man. Not just a man. But a kind and loving man who would never give up on you no matter what. You married him. You invited me to the wedding. Of course I couldn’t make it. But we kept in touch somehow. You made your greatest dream come true. You forgot about me. Until you had a relapse, and I have been helping you through it since. Now here we are.”
“How long has it been?” I ask. “I mean, leaving you.”
“A lot of years now.”
“Have I been happy with him?”
“I hope so,” she replies, wiping away her tears.
“Didn’t you fight for me?” I interrogate.
“I did. But I lost. Besides, you were better off with him anyways.”
“He’s an amazing man. He’s perfect. I wish you could retrace it all in your memory right now.”
“And you’re flawed?”
“Very much,” she smirks. “I’m weak. I might have already given up on you long before you kicked me out of your life.”
“But you didn’t,” I reply, “did you? You fought for it hard. So hard that it made you cry every day and every night.”
“Yes. Do you start to remember things now?”
“Not remember. I just feel it.”
“What else do you feel?” she asks.
“You’re telling the truth,” I say. “You have moved on. You don’t want me back anymore.”
“I gotta go. I’ll see you once it’s all clear. Bye.” She kisses me on the forehead and storms out of the room.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” an evil voice echoes in. “You’re not supposed to remember this shit! Get the fuck out of there! Now!”
“I’m in charge of the fancy red notebook,” I reply. “Tables are turned. I will distinguish my reality from now on and I will do everything to find out the truths. You can go to hell.”
“That is not reality, you son of a bitch! You’re a goddamn thought! You will never know the difference! Ever!”
“Her name is Dr. Agnes Berry. She loves me so much. That is one of the truths.”
“She is a con-artist who’s there to manipulate your fucking mind!”
“Why are you doing this to me? What have I ever done to you?”
“You’ve made me kill myself!” the evil voice roars, cracking the ceiling in pieces as I sink down in the debris.
The future cannot be altered. I shall win. Even in death. It might not be so typical. But I secretly know. There is nothing that they can do about it. I am and will always be running the show.
If you’re paying attention, do you remember my name? I guess not. How dare you. What a waste of time. Get out of here. Go on, you smart aleck you!
A mother’s wisdom extends to life emotions. It knows no limits. It always tells the truths. No matter how painful it may be. No matter where it takes you to. No matter what it does to your personal principles. It is. It does. It will always be. No matter how you define it to be.
I look at my hands. The bulging veins determine my age. I must be in my early or mid-40s. I am married to a perfect man. So perfect that his whereabouts have been inconspicuous all this time I am trapped in this hospital bed. My mother has been patient enough to deal with my mutism. Though my mind has been professing its sanity in silence. I have been having a quiet conversation with the ceiling. It is still up there in its immortal wholeness. No hallucination would quash it. No evil voice would vilify my consciousness and how I induce my senses to realize reality as it unfolds before me. All along my mother’s wisdom keeps whispering back to me. I listen. For it knows more than an enchanter does.
I am a mother. Not a miracle worker. The only miracle that I can do is show love to my child. Such love will condition her emotional vulnerability to life. She will become more sensible and happier. Her heart will always circumvent her pains. There is no room for long-term agony. There is hope felt in every touch. Every mistake is an opportunity to strengthen morals. I am a mother. I am love. I am here for you.
It sounds like me. It could have been me. It is me. Really? No, please. Take a breath and feel reality. What does it say? Hmm. Okay. It is my madness prompting me to create it for comforting purposes. Stop! It is time to escape from these delusions and tell my story as it is supposed to be told. The humdrum blustering of events. One after another. These truths may not be as exciting as I believe they should be. Like meeting my mother in my awareness as the evil voice begins to debilitate to oblivion. It is still there. It has already found its home. In my head. But hopefully I can demolish it. Soon. I will do whatever it takes to bring myself back in full.
It is another familiar face. My mind knows who she is. My heart starts to feel her identity as well. Progress looks good. I am in charge.
“What time is it?” I ask.
She bustles towards the bed. “It’s past 2 in the afternoon.” She feels my forehead and holds my hand. “How are you feeling now, sweetheart?”
“Dizzy,” I reply and sit back. “I met Dr. Agnes Berry yesterday.”
“Good,” she says. “I love her. She’s amazing.”
“Do you know about our history?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I wasn’t nice to her at all, huh?” I weep.
“It was in the past, sweetheart,” she replies. “Leave it.”
“I’m sorry. My memory has sunk away.”
“It’s okay. You can ask me anything.”
“Is your full name Ethel Feinstein?”
“Did you leave me when I was a kid?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Do you play the piano?”
“Yes, I do. I teach. But you’re Grace George. The Grace George of classical piano. So –”
“What? That’s really true?”
“You left home. You hardly even talked to us since. Only every Christmas holiday. Dr. Agnes Berry helped you through the most difficult times. Until you started making a name for yourself. You left her. You got married. You’ve got a wonderful son. Performing wore you out. Alcohol became a constant company. Things got more rough. You couldn’t contain yourself anymore. You ran away. That is why we’re stepping in now to save you.”
“Wait,” I yelp, shocked. “That’s too much information for me to be sucked into my head right now.”
“You’re back home now,” she explains. “Toronto. Life happened for you in New York. But you came back to make peace with the past. To get better and maybe rediscover yourself somehow.”
“I met Dr. Agnes Berry in New York? I’ve got a husband and a son there right now, and I ran away from them. Is that what’s happened?”
“Dr. Agnes Berry is originally from here. She moved to New York with you because that’s what you wanted. She came back home when she found out you had been cheating on her with a man. I guess you got scared that you would end up alone. You found your own redemption in having a family instead. But you lost yourself along the way. This is the result.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“I’m your mother. You would still run to me for anything. With or without respect.”
“With or without respect? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have always hated me. It got even worse when I divorced your father.”
“What makes me hate you?”
“A lot of reasons. I can’t get into them right now. You have to get better first.”
“How long have I been back?” I inquire more.
“Over a month now,” she answers.
“What’s my birth name?”
“My stage name?”
I almost vomit. “Do you know who Skye Stoltz is?”
Ethel gasps. “Sweetheart, we’ll talk about her some other time, okay? Just focus on getting better for now, then we’ll sort it all out together. How’s that?”
“You and Dr. Agnes Berry are both giving me shitty answers every time I get closer to the truths! Skye Stoltz has been fucking up with my head! The bitch wants me dead! Who is she?”
“That’s not true!”
“Then tell me everything you know about her!”
“She was your childhood best friend. A musical genius. She was your ghost composer. She worked for you. She stayed with you in New York for a while. Things got out of hand. She moved back here and worked at Sonata Academy as an administrative assistant. She quit on the day you came back home. You wanna know why? To take care of you.”
“This is fucked up. You’re fucking me up, too, aren’t you? All of you are fucking me up!”
“You came back to make peace with us. Don’t forget that. You hurt a lot of people. This is your reality. Welcome back home. Sweetheart.”
Delusions can transport you to situations and places that confirm your senses and allow you to experience the bizarre that ordinary humans have never felt and been to before. I can brag about it as a privilege, hence I will die without ignorance grilling around my consciousness. I am proud that it has taken over my life regardless of its evil impulse to purposely hurt people who care about me. Whether I cared about them just as much or not, it is absurd to ponder on it now. Perhaps I have already punished myself for all the wrongs I have done. The excessive drinking. The distortions of the past. Surrendering to psychotic episodes propelled by my subconscious desires. Finding myself in this hospital bed. Praying to die. Now facing reality and sanity to offer remorse as I get ready for mortal assessment. This is my voice. My name is Marla Feinstein and Grace George.
This momentary presence is a residual thought from the past. What happens next is a journey of wiping out shame and guilt. No excuse for what I have done. I may not even know the whole truths and stories behind this, but my intuition can validate the veracity of it all, and it punches a distressing jolt in my heart. I must admit I was evil. For what reason, I will never know. A childhood trauma? What was it? It must have come from somewhere. Somewhere deep and painful. Something cruel must have happened to me as a child. Does my mother know? Who else am I? Who else was in my life? Who else is always around for me? Who else is hiding out there? Who else knows about my past? Why am I asking these questions now after all this time? I am such a psychotic ass who always finds a way to contaminate her head with blood-curdling thoughts. I must end it now. Now! Reality is here. Sanity has welcomed me back. I am home. I have to make peace with broken hearts.
It speaks to me loudly. I have the urgency to get out of here. I want to see somebody. Somebody who has suddenly flown into my thoughts.
I see a castle-like church. Its stunning figure stops my heart. She awaits at the grand entrance, wearing a black dress. I can feel her grief. The pang is heavy to take on. It exhausts me instantly. I slip my hand into hers. I touch her hair. I kiss her cheek. She is not responding. I am invisible. I must have already been dead. She looks familiar. I desire to be with her now. But it is too late. Everything is too late. Am I already dead?
“You should have learned to love her back. She has an unwavering deep love for you. Without asking for anything in return. How dare you break her heart many times over? How dare you? Yep. That’s right. You deserve to die. It’s the only way for you to make peace with the past. Rest in peace now. Welcome home.”
A refined young man appears by the door. Familiar. Intense. Love. Altruistic energy. Perceptive eyes. Beautiful aura. “Hi, mom,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply, almost jumping out of the bed. “Little Danny?”
He runs towards the bed and throws me a hug. “I missed you!”
I kiss him around the face. “Oh my God! My boy is alive!”
“Dad and I have been in town for a few weeks now, in case you wanna know. Tracking your progress and all.”
“You know about my condition?”
“Yeah. They’ve told me. They don’t even have the right term for it, but anyways, they’re working on it, I hope.”
“Was I bad mother?”
“No. I was a spoiled brat. You’re not going to die, mom. I won’t let it happen. Please, get better for me. Please!”
“I will. I promise.”
He kisses me on the cheek. “Promise promise? Promise like an everlasting promise?”
“An everlasting promise,” I reply and hold his hand. “Do you know what happened to me?”
“I think so.”
“What do you think happened to me, my darling?”
“I think you fell in love with somebody else,” he answers, looking into my eyes.
“Do you know whom I fell in love with?” I ask.
“Auntie Skye,” he answers.
“You mean, Skye Stoltz?” I yelp.
“Yeah. When she flew back home, you fell apart. That’s why you’re here. At least, that’s how I see it. That’s what I’ve heard anyways.”
“You’re not mad at me for being a freak?”
“You’re not a freak, mom,” he says. “You fell in love with another woman. You got hurt so badly. You turned to alcohol. You started seeing things differently. It makes you human. That’s what human is all about. All we gotta do is deal with it and be a man about it.”
“I didn’t raise you for sure,” I giggle. “You’re too wise for your age.”
“We talk a lot. More than a lot. We’re best friends.”
“How old are you, my darling?”
“Who taught you to become a man?”
“You taught me how to love. That’s what makes me a man.”
“I’m a hypocrite. It’s shameful. Don’t believe everything that I say.”
“If you don’t do something about it,” he says, “then you’re a hypocrite.”
“Do something about what?” I reply.
“I can’t believe my own son is telling me to cheat on his father!”
“Mom!” he says. “This is not about me and Dad. This is about you. I mean, would you rather pretend that everything is okay and stay miserable or what?”
I weep. “I have a feeling she’s already been in love with somebody else.”
“She loves me. When you love your love’s loved one, love is already bound for life.”
Today is November 10th, 2017. It is Friday. It is Dr. Edwards’ day. The man who always shows up whether I choose to be in a neurotic world or face off with reality. The man who has been suspected to be a masquerader. The man who claims to be of clean conscience as a friend. He is the bookkeeper of my life. He will unveil all truths to me. He knows it is what I need to get better. Today I am saved. Fully. I shall never look back again.
My name is Marla Feinstein. My stage name is Grace George. My sanity is kept in here. Also, I will catch a little bit of happiness. There is nothing wrong with my mind anymore. I can diagnose my emotions now. Dread nothing. Just feel something. Something that makes me smile. A truth will make me smile and keep going. I will find all of them. Trust me. I will.
Listen. This is me. Do not barge in. Please. Get out. I am being good. My mind is good. Everything is good. Everything is real. I cannot wait to get out of here. I want to be with her now. It is already too late. I know. But eight seconds with her would be fine. I am begging you. I do not need a lot of time. I just want eight seconds to hold her hand. Maybe then she would love me back and forgive me for whatever wrong I had done in the past. Listen. I need it. Before I go and say my goodbyes, let me have this moment with her. It would be a dream come true. Then I could fly away with peace in my heart.
I sit up in my hospital bed as I get ready to challenge Dr. Edwards’ version of Grace George’s or Marla Feinstein’s truths. He is in a pensive mood. He ambles away and pauses at the foot of the bed. He gazes at me and smiles. He looks sad, but shrugs it off with a confident stand. He is about to say something, but I catch his thought in an instant as I choose to lead the pack this time around. “I really want to get better, Dr. Edwards,” I say. “Would you help me?”
“Gracie,” he replies, “I have been doing my best since day one.”
“I know that,” I say. “But this one is different.”
“How different?” he sighs.
“I’m gonna be asking you a series of questions. I need full cooperation and honesty.”
“Let’s do it.”
“What’s my birth name?”
“What’s my mother’s name?”
“Am I here because I overdosed on alcohol?”
“Am I an alcoholic?”
“When did I arrive?”
“Did I tell you something about Dr. Agnes Berry?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Have I been married?”
“Yes, you have.”
“Have I told you about my husband?”
“What’s his name?”
“What?” I gulp. I search for answers in my trusted judgment. How could my revolting thoughts accuse him of being a villain? Jesus! I want to vomit on myself right now. Such repugnance must never be forgiven. Not at all. They were right. I am evil. I deserve to die! “What about my mother?” I continue. “Why do I hate my mother so much?”
“That’s between you and your mom,” he replies.
“You mean, I have never confided in you about it at all?”
“Why would I hide it from you?”
“Maybe you were not comfortable opening it up to me.”
“Whatever is going on between you and your mom, it’s between you and your mom. Whatever is going on between us, it’s between us. Do you understand?”
“But you’re my therapist. I’m supposed to drop all my shit on your head.”
“I am also your father. I’m supposed to just be here for you whenever you need me. And even when you don’t.”
“You’re my dad?” I cry.
“What I’ve just been thankful for is you haven’t stopped reaching out for me,” he says.
“Why did you and mom get divorced?”
“Love dies at some point, Gracie. When it does, you may either die with it or live on and give birth to a new one.”
“Did your love for her die?”
“I will die with it.”
“You still love her?”
“Very much. But she’s happy now. My love for her will never equate with it. That, I know for sure.”
“You’re still friends, though?”
“Yes. We see each other once in a while. Of course.”
“Why is your last name Edwards, not Feinstein?”
“Edwards is my first name.”
“Oh,” I sigh. “Have I told you about Skye Stoltz?”
“Yeah,” he chokes and looks away. “I know her. Everybody knows her.”
“What do you know about her?”
“You hired her as your ghost composer. She lived with you in New York for a few years or so. This was soon after you got married. Then one day you got into a huge fight and she decided to fly back home.”
“What was the fight all about?”
“I don’t wanna get into that. It’s not my place, really. You better ask her yourself once you see her.”
“I don’t even know where to find her,” I say.
“You will,” he replies. “Eventually. Soon.”
“Has she been hiding from me? What’s going on?”
“She was the first person that you called the moment you landed back home. She took really great care of you. She thought her job was done.”
“So she’s hiding from me.”
“She’s around. Looking after you. Making sure you’re okay.”
“Okay, now, that’s really creepy.”
“I know. But it’s true. Don’t worry. She has a good heart. She will never harm you.”
“You personally know her?” I interrogate more.
“She is your childhood best friend,” he answers. “Your mom taught her piano.”
“My childhood best friend. Skye Stoltz.”
“Yes. You two were inseparable.”
“Dad,” I say, “will you please take me home now?”
“Which home?” he replies.
“Any home that loves and accepts me.”
“As much as I would love to, I can’t. The hospital would have to discharge you. Not me.”
“Oh, God,” I sigh. “I would just like to see her now.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replies.
Love owns all emotions. It also holds the mind. It is the queen. It protects its kingdom. It either saves or shatters lives. Its beauty and power, unfathomable. Once it invades, you better be ready for the consequences. Good or bad, it is all up to how you love and how it is given. No book could explain its deepest control. Not even the Bible could teach you how to keep it in full. No wise man could show you how it is achieved unconditionally. You have to learn its tricks yourself. You must desire it with no expectations. Making it realistic enough for you to accept it as it is. It smiles at your heart. It gives you lovely reveries. It makes a dream come true. Or it does the opposite.
You are conditioned to go through miseries and defeats. You are also capable to enchant your time and create delightful memories. You always forget that love is a knight. Your knight. You command it. You are its queen. You call the signals. You protect yourself at all costs. At all times.
If it saves a heart, give it a go. If it crushes one, dare not to make a move. If you have to crush a heart to save yours, move forward. If the other saves your heart and crushes theirs, sacrifice. If you save a heart to save yours, keep the role. If you crush a heart to crush yours, game over. Love does not read black and white. It knows no logic and strategies to support its claims. It has its own rules. It only values itself. It knows its worth.
Do you know your worth in it? Do you know how to keep its worth? Do you even understand how much its worth overpowers or influences your judgment of life?
Mental instability and emotional damage can share with you the effects of love’s worth. Your personal experience can prove it. Your tears try to forget it. You are never whole again. As its foremost desire is to steal important pieces of you. Discreetly. Subtly. It is a genius sneak. Be warned.
Or be at ease with it. Never forget, you are the queen. Love is your knight. It works for you. That is how you move. Make it happen. Find your worth in love. Or let love find its worth in you.
This is my story. It may be lies. It may also be truths. My thoughts glow in either black or white. My reality flashes through in rainbow colors. About love. Because of love. For love. Yet its worth can never be measured. Its worth prohibits me from going back to myself. Its worth only prays for death.
Why am I still here for?
I cannot remember fighting for it. It is a narcissistic genesis of heart and mind. That makes me the one. The one with pride. Though brave enough to leave a denied love behind for a wishful one that my memory has settled in a blank space. Yet it is convincing. My mind is convinced. So is my heart. Not my thoughts. Neither my subconscious. Maybe. Maybe not.
Whoever has been responsible for all this — is not at fault. She is consciously paralyzed. But her inner thoughts can run like prodigious hands on piano keys. Love owns her emotions. She understands its worth. She is, after all, a genius. No further sweet words needed.
She has already given it a go!
To deduce my mental illness requires a genius psychiatric evaluation. I am a stranger to myself. My past is a series of flashing images coupled with jolting feelings. I am struggling to stay awake. Floundering in this faint present without a memory to remember by. Think hard. Hard enough. There is something greater than a beguiling make-believe. Truth. A sense. Just one. It has to travel me back. Oh, think hard. The past looks promising. Ironic, isn’t it? But it does look cherished with somebody whose heart exhausts itself for my survival.
I am falling asleep, and a kind smile welcomes my consciousness back. I see him. It is real. He does exist. Still. My husband. Eli. Who committed a crime of rape and violence. Who almost killed me. Who had been murdered in my thoughts in the name of revenge. These significant mental mishaps are resting in my memory like doves bringing messages of peace to a doomed soul.
It is the unknown deceiving me. The amount of deceit lingering through shuts me into a stranger’s identity. Maybe there is nothing wrong with me at all. Maybe I am being fooled. Maybe an evil heart has started all this to make me suffer more than I should before I decide to kill myself. I know it is going to be a tragic end. Justice must be served first. Truths must be unfolded. As unconditional love unravels itself from my hospital bed.
“You are okay! Don’t trust anybody! Listen to your thoughts! They’re there for a reason! They are your god! They tell the truth! Get the hell out of there! Now!”
“What is going on? Damn it. Listen. Listen to it. It is telling the truth. Do not play the game anymore.”
“Honey,” Eli intrudes, stunned, “it’s me. What were you blubbering about?”
“My thoughts,” I reply. “I was just having an argument with my thoughts.”
“You’ll be discharged tonight,” he says. “But you still need to go through therapy though. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I think you’re already coming back.”
“Is this all happening for real?” I ask.
“Yeah yeah,” he replies. “I know it’s tough. But we’re getting there. Somehow.”
“Is it true you’re my husband?”
“Yes, honey. It’s true.”
“We have a beautiful 15-year-old son. Little Danny.”
“Yes, we do.”
“I have been hurting you all through these years, haven’t I?”
“It doesn’t matter, really. I can live with it.”
“Do you know Skye Stoltz?”
“I’ve found out that I have been in love with her.”
“Do you remember being in love with her though?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. I’m confused. Well, that’s what I’ve just been informed, so I must have been in love with her then. That’s why I flew back home.”
“She’s already been with someone else.”
“I don’t care. I just want to see her. I might need some answers.”
“What’s the day today?” he asks in a challenging tone.
“Sunday,” I reply, “November 12th.”
“Year?” he continues.
“Grace George, stage name. Marla Feinstein, legal name.”
“What city is this?”
“Toronto.” I gulp.
“Where were you born?” he sits on the bed.
“Your mother’s name?”
“Your father’s name?”
“Dr. Edwards Feinstein.”
“Favorite Johann Sebastian Bach’s piece?”
“Air on the G string.”
“Second movement of orchestral suite No. 3 in D major, BWV 1068. August Wilhelmj’s arrangement. You are not exactly a Bach’s fan, are you?”
“I love Beethoven,” I cry.
“It’s okay, honey,” he says. “You don’t have to live in make-believe anymore. I may never understand the special reasons as to why you’ve put yourself through these troubles, but I will always understand you.”