Ok, so. It is occurring to me that I have adopted "psychotic" as a kind of identity category, and that may not be the best thing to do. For one, it is alienating, and I mean it to be so. One would have thought that I would have gotten past the need to do as much in the year that I spent reexamining my feelings towards my broken friendships, but I haven't. I lash out as my ability to empathize collapses to a tiny point. It can be a regressive, angry and inauthentic thing to do.
It may also be that I am depressed (I would never say this in the real world, not even to my psychiatrist), and being mysterious about one's feelings, even with cheerful phrasing, is its own sweet kind of identity. It gives me space, and freedom from too much interpretation. What also creates room is spilling one's guts. As much as I liked the good doctor, feeling flayed open at the whim of someone much more powerful can feel like an oddly fascinating code but is not a pleasant feeling, and some of that came out in twisted and possibly psychotic fashion over the summer.
For "vacation" I went to a horrible residential care type place where they decided it was vitally important for me to experience tardive dyskenisia. I broke out to go discuss a philosophy paper with a professor who knew of my situation and was kind enough to speak with me anyhow. I was afraid of his beard. I really, really wanted to be better, enough so that I was willing to overlook the basic fact of having compromised rational thought (thankfully not in such a way as to say very much). I was, apparently, sane enough to get away with refusing medication. The situation sounds like a disaster even to me.
I've been feeling too exhausted to regroup or even attempt very much but keep on resting up for tomorrow.
10 hours ago