Spiraling Downward Into Madness
Vincent Van Gogh spiraled down into madness and poverty. Only after he died did his painting “Sunflowers” sell for thirty-eight million dollars. Edgar Allen Poe spiraled down into drink and drugs and died penniless. Centuries later, his story, “The Pit and the Pendulum,” became a movie that would have made him rich, if only he were alive. Jimi Hendrix spiraled down and now gets royalties to his estate. Maybe I could spiral down and get rich off my writing a century from now.
Spiraling down doesn’t always lead to poverty. Elvis spiraled down in mansions and sequins. Charlie Sheen spiraled down at a million dollars an episode. Elton John spiraled down in expensive designer gown. Maybe I had a chance at success before death.
To
learn how to spiral down into madness, I saw a psychotherapist, hoping for a
grim diagnosis. She asked what I wanted
to talk about.
“Doctor, I may be crazy. How do I know for sure?
“John,
we don’t use that word, crazy, anymore.”
I
said “I need to be diagnosed as crazy, because I want to be a writer.”
She said “I'm a writer, too. My books don't sell either. Get a real job like I did."
Maybe
psychotherapy was not for me. I went to
the admissions desk at a psychiatric hospital and asked the receptionist what
forms I should fill out to get a room.
He
smirked and said “What makes you think you’re crazy?“
I
said “I want to be a writer.”
He
said “I’m sorry, but we already have our quota of writers.”
I
gave up. Being crazy is not something
you can just switch on and off. It takes
years of irrational thoughts chewing you up inside. Your life has to go off the rails; isolation
and delusion are required. You can’t
fake it. Unable to go mad, I kept
writing books that no one would ever buy, not even in the distant future.
I
volunteered to help out at the local homeless shelter, hoping I could learn
lunacy directly from real lunatics. On
my first day, I helped a crazy old man feed and dress himself.
He
asked ”Why are you helping me?"
I
said, “I want to learn to be crazy, to help my career.”
He said, “But why did you choose me?"
I said "You look crazy."
He said “I’m not crazy. I’m a writer.”
