Please note: this piece contains some strong language and descriptions of mental health
Am I the one? I used to think so. I still do but my desire to change the world has been medicated to a trickle. Yep, I suffer from a messiah complex. I’m bipolar and the delusional construct my mind has created during heavy duty psychotic episodes is quite profound.
I want to change the world or at least influence it. Just a little bit. I have the tools, art and writing, and the desire to do so. I think Jesus was mentally ill. I mean if Jesus turned up in today’s modern world he would probably be diagnosed, and medicated. Anybody, whether they’re ranting on your local soap box or pacing the psychiatric wards claiming to be the son of God needs their head looked at.
I have a future, a grandiose one of becoming the next messiah. I could argue that Jesus was just a human anomaly who did or did not exist. If he did exist; what an impact he had on the world. Following this train of thought there have been thousands of human anomalies: Jesus, Joan of Arc, Aristotle, and Elvis. Therefore, I could be such an anomaly because I am only human. A freak of nature if you will. I could argue that I’ve been anointed twice. In the same way Christ was anointed when he went on hunger strike in the Judean Desert. I’m sure starving yourself for forty days and forty nights could cause some sort of nervous breakdown similar to mine. It’s only natural and a valid assumption. My first feeling of being anointed by God’s rapture/bliss was at the beginning of my mental illness. It was a serotonin rush of epic proportions. It made me feel like I was kissed by an angel. Where in fact my pineal gland had just burst its banks. Three years later I was in God’s presence whilst locked up in a psychiatric ward. Both experiences blew my mind.
Of course, my misadventures with mania have been turbulent and troublesome. Three years of being the one has cost me a heavy price. I’m now obsessed with changing the future, having an impact, or at least placing a Government Health Warning at Jesus’ feet. I think it’s wrong that a saviour, Jesus Christ, should be part of anybody’s suffering. I’m angry, I suffered big time, I spent months in a psychiatric ward with a Nurse Ratched-type psychiatrist.
During those months, and years, three years to be precise, I suppressed and reinforced my religious delusions by swallowing the rage I felt being in that place. Now I can’t help it. Stable or psychotic I still believe it’s my job to save the world. I’m going to make an attempt of course. Who wouldn’t? It’s a lovely place when the sun is out. I would like to infuse it with art and literature. My story. This story, and many more works of fiction hopefully.
Over the years my obsession has taken me on a journey of discovery. Whether it be the therapeutic journey I’ve been on over the years (I’ve had enough therapy to kill a donkey) or my interactions with books. My desire to write. My college attendance, my private English tutor, all adds to my delusional experiences as a future messiah. I have a latent hum of psychosis, as well as walking this earth, and soaking up all things human. I am becoming entirely philosophical about it. The art is just a bonus. I’d like to make a splash if I ever make it into the public domain.
I’ve attempted this by writing a memoir; regurgitating both good and bad memories. It’s called the Wrong Messiah because I believe that Jesus is the wrong messiah, and to be honest so am I but life goes on as they say. My illness continues. My desire to become famous becomes more apparent the closer I get to getting there. My second book, The Secret Life of Lucifer, an attempt at religious fiction, might go down well if I just get it right. I’m hoping for a bit of a religious scandal like Dan Browns: The Davinci Code or the God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. Unfortunately, it won’t be as scandalous as say The Old Testament but I can only try.
Thankfully, I’m an atheist, so my angst about the magic of religious delusions, is tainted by the psychiatrist. They tell me about this complex and that complex. They comment on religious history. How it’s littered with psychiatric illnesses like the one Joan of Arc had. I’m sure she heard voices. God’s telephone call asking her to defeat half of France. I’m sure she wears a halo because she was canonised by the church after she was burnt alive by them.
It makes me wonder if I’ll be burned at the stake when I try to save the future. I am the son of God after all. I may get nailed to a cross but that’s already happened to me, several times, according to my grandiose delusions. My religious experiences. It’s all about biochemistry (a psychiatrist insight). My street punk insight, it fucks you up when push comes to shove. I’m living proof of that as far as I’m concerned. My argument. I must be true. It opens up so many doors as far as religious maniacs go. I know because I am definitely one. I have to live with my insights but the old recurring question remains the same; am I the one? Only future history, fate it seems, will have the answer to my distant dreams.
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