Smiling like someone successfully baking cakes, Dr. Bronte says, ‘You should be relieved, it’s so rare to see such clear diagnoses.’ Neither psychosis nor neuroses, it doesn’t feel clear. Borderline, split like a blackjack bet — two suits, same value, no clear winner. Where does that leave me? ‘We can treat it, of course. Though, I worry they won’t take you since you aren’t hurting yourself.’ I think she means physically. I finger my scars. Should I restart? Would that help me get help? ‘Don’t act rashly now.’ But that’s my problem, impulse control and the point where logic lies.
A doctor told me it was low grade Tourette’s, the internet diagnosis is autonomous sensory meridian response, a memeable quality with millions of streamable views. For me, it’s a course of soft lighting extending from skull’s base to skin’s pinnacle, every cell it touches rippling and vibrating in queue with tsunamic pace. It’s some kind of sight to see, I’m told, but I wouldn’t know, my eyes always close, my mind suddenly severed from all its endeavours. They call it disorder in some circles, but I’ll happily be broken if that’s what it means, let the electricity have me.