Sleeping in Sin

There I was in front of a psychiatric professional, seeking assessment for a disability pension. The music was playing so loudly in my head that I could barely hear over it to make out the words to her questions. We talked about the brain's flow of chemicals and its impact on mood. We agreed that when it comes to mood, chemicals can indeed have a profound effect. This fact gets demonstrated nightly in the taverns and dance clubs. As I related the details of my descent into madness in early 2008 - which I hope have been kept private, though I have my doubts about that - I trailed off in my picture of the physical mind to the Freudian iceberg diagram of the conceptual mind. You know, the one with the tip of the iceberg representing the conscious mind sticking out above the water's surface while the remaining bulk of it lies underwater after the fashion of the subconscious mind. (This was not an association with my assessor's demeanour, for she was, in fact, a very warm person, to all outward appearances.) Our behaviour is driven by these subconscious forces and they are wild and selfish. Large portions of my brain are used to hold music and images, which spares me some of this negative influence, but I am still no exception. It frightens me to realize that I often don't know what I think. In cases where these potentially destructive subconscious drives are too strong, chemicals are the popular way to subdue them. Such treatments are effective, but I wouldn't want to throw out the proverbial baby with the bathwater, in terms of impeding my creative process. Recognizing God, on the other hand, as one who watches over your every move and knows every thought in your mind can have a disciplining effect on your behaviour. You always hesitate to do, say, or think the wrong thing, even when you are alone. It seems to work for me, but I wouldn't recommend it for everyone. I am grateful that my God is a forgiving God because I'm sure I offend him constantly, without even being aware of it. Whatever he may have to share with me about my darkest mental formations, I'd rather not even know, though neither would He be interested. In retrospect, if I'd simply have stayed in touch with my faith, I'd never have had to visit a psychiatrist.
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