Should I Ever Question My Own Sanity?

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They say there are two sure fire signs that tell if you are likely to be insane. 1/. Having hairs on the palms of your hands. And 2/. Looking at the palms of your hands to check whether or not you have hairs growing there. A few of you probably just looked before I revealed the second sign. - The first is not true at all. My mum used to use ‘you are mad’ or ‘you are going mad’ as a put down whenever we argued. A family friend’s grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s in the 70’s and she was very forgetful. So if I couldn’t find my socks or school bag, which was common for me, I was immediately accused of going to go just like Granny Wainwright. It kind of got to me. Then there’s the school bullies. I was told that if I was nice and gave no one cause to hurt me I’d be fine but some bullies really do start fights for nothing and I was seen as an easy target. The school attitude was that a bit of jostling helped toughen us up so we had to learn to take it. That was seen as a license to carry on by some bullies. When it got to the point of me being found unconscious at the foot of a stairwell, an later having my face slashed open with a broken bottle at 15 I was sent to a child psychiatrist to see why I was such a soft-target bully magnet. My mum and house master sent me – the psychiatrist told me not to come back and criticised the school for sending all its problem kids to see him. I took that as a proof of my sanity, a bit like Sheldon Cooper in The Big Bang Theory saying he’s not crazy because his mum had him tested. I virtually induced my own lifelong fight with insomnia. I used to stay up in bed listening to a shock-jock radio show, which dared to play very sweary anarchic material. It meant I was bleary eyed through school lessons. In 1978 my dad died, aged just 49 and everyone told me I had to look after my mum, and that I was the man of the house now. I felt my childhood had died with my dad. That sent me into a spiral of introspection, and I hated myself for not crying over his death or at his funeral. I can cry over soppy movies but no family death has drawn a tear from me. I began to feel coldly sociopathic. Then came my cult years, 1981 to 1985, with the Divine Light Mission teaching that we were to silence our minds entirely so we could just feel our living guru-god’s grace radiating to us all the way from his mansion in Malibu. Not thinking at all seemed a cure for my neurosis rather than what it was in reality, its inflammation. As Bowie sang I was putting out the fire with gasoline. Worse, the meditation had to be practiced for an hour first thing each morning on getting up and last hing before going to bed so my insomnia intensified I was immunizing myself against sleep, though I craved sleep. Escaping the cult when it’s Manchester branch collapsed in in-fighting, I went exactly the opposite way and got myself a degree in philosophy, the study of thinking, seeing the World and answering all the big questions through mental reasoning, logic and deduction – my degree certificate was again, proof of my sanity to me. I'd set out turbocharge my mind, reactivating it with a jump-start, thinking a hyperactive mind would be too fit and healthy for Alzheimer’s and my mum’s prophetic curse of Granny Wainwright syndrome, but that was a mistake as a/. I ended up further feeding my insomnia b/. Seeing great minds like Terry Pratchett and Iris Murdoch crumble to Alzheimer’s tells me the curse still potentially chases me. It is possible to think too much as shown in the workplace where bosses feared me as I questioned and challenged so many decisions and instructions, as I could no longer take things at face value. I became over-intellectual, too individual, a seriously intense square peg in a round hole, non-conforming, maverick, anarchic, difficult to work with, and in some eyes, just plain mad. I have experienced regrets, and unhappiness, and mourning, but I have never felt what I would call depression. Strangely that leaves me feeling as if I should. I actually get into a frame of mind where I feel as if there is something wrong with me for not having been diagnosed as depressive – that in itself seems totally deranged logic to me at the same time. My creative writing virtually celebrates the offbeat, individual, maverick and strange. I find I actually like my eccentricity and let it define me. It becomes who and what I am, and fuels my passion for writing. So, am I mad? Yes, I’d say I’m absolutely barking. The worst, or perhaps the best part of that is, I rather like it and I’m afraid to let go of it as much as part of me wants to straighten myself out. Should we ever question our own sanity? Probably not, but my curiosity to see inside Pandora’s Box, Bluebeard’s secret room, and what goes on in the room marked keep out is too strong. My mind has a sign on it saying Abandon Hope all ye who enter here, but I just had to get in anyway. Maybe one day, I’ll find my way out. Arthur Chappell