I’m currently experiencing a reality issue, and it’s a lulu.

I can’t find my drugs. Last Friday. I got all my psychiatric drugs refilled, and now I can’t find some of them.

Note that “some”. If they were all missing, that would at least be logically coherent. But no, only half of them are missing. My sleeping pills, Quetiapine and Trazadone, are present and accounted for.

That means that the batch of meds I got definitely made it home and into my bedroom and on to my desk. But some time after then, the more important ones, my antidepressants Wellbutrin and Paxil, went missing.

And I am trying to stay calm about this and think things through logically and methodically, but I am prone to freaking out in situations like these which is the whole reason I need the fucking meds in the first place.

So I am not a happy camper at the moment.

Memory : when I was in grades 1 and 2, gym class consisted of a nice old lady playimng this ancient children’s exercise LP for us and encouraging us to do the xercise by doing them herself, with us.

God, I hated that thing.

And the thing I hated most was this part where the voice on the record said “Is everybody happy?” in a plummy chummy kind of voice, and we the chillun’s were supposed to reply “Yes, we’re happy! H A P P Y!”.

That’s us poor saps spelling out the word “happy”.

So you see, me and gym class started off as enemies and it only got worse from there.

Sometimes I wonder about how I got to be such a smartass kid who never really participated in the innocent group reality of my surroundings. Part of us must be the early childhood trauma of being raped by a stranger at the age of 3, and of course being the youngest of 4 probably played a role, but I feel there must be more.

I think I was born this way, to a certain extent. I mean, my reaction to that form of gym class was by no means typical. The other little kiddies enjoyed themselves and, looking at it from my current perspective, it was lame but it was harmless, and actually a lot less traumatic than real gym class.

But there I was, rolling my little eyes at how lame the whole thing was and doing the absolute minimum I could get away with as a form of protest.

It’s like I was never innocent. Maybe it was a function of my IQ, I don’t know. But I never had an imaginary friend. I never had a toy animal I dragged everywhere with me. I never played with toys and I never used said toys to create little dramas. I never thought the Easter Bunny was real. Ditto the Tooth Fairy.

And my belief in Santa did not last very long because my high torque little mind produced such an intense battery of questions about how Santa got in and how he did it all ibn one night and such that my siblings had no choice but to admit he was not real.

And this went down before I was even school age.

So yeah. I was a weird, weird kid on all levels. And I was so sensible. No flights of fancy for me. Not in the traditional “dreamer” sense. I didn’t go on Spaceman Spiff style journeys of the imagination. For me, the walls between imagination and reality were rock solid, and I never believed somethibng because I wanted to believe it.

It’s always been an evidence bnased world for me.

And I think I have suffered for it. I have talked in this space about how the capacity for self-delusion is necessary for a mind to stay healthy. I think my lack of imaginary friends etc is an expression of that.

I never had the ability to invent a way to satisfy my emotional needs.  And that bothers me, and not just because I have figured out that being that way has been bad for me.

No, it also bothers me because it suggests I might have been born with some kind of psychological congenital defect. Something which kept me from functioning normally right from the beginning. Something that means I was bor wired weirdly.

I find that notion entirely plausible. And it would explain a lot.

Of course, it’s hard to be certain what is nature and what is nurture even under the best of circumstances, and with my primary trauma having happened when I was only 3 years old and hence at a very early stage of my psychological and mental development, the line becomes hopelessly blurred.

It’s not so much a line as a smudge.

But as far back as I can remember, I have had the same no-bullshit mindset. I have always seen through the illusion and known what was truly real and what was merely a thing people believed. I have always had laser-hone razor for a mind and my restless and relentless hunt for the truth of things started when I wasn’t even old enough to need my own movie ticket when we went to see a flick.

And it really seems like there is no way out of this machine for me. I have taken a teeny tiny step by deciding there is such a thing as “true enough” and permitting at least the idea of acceptable bullshit cross my mind.

But that’s about it. This brutal truth machine of mine is my main way of deriving the reality that exists beyond my immediate sensory world. It is like a sense unto itself, and without it, I would be lost in absolute chaos and wouldn’t even know my name.

Or so it would have me believe, anyhow.

Perhaps it can be tamed, though. Pacified. Domesticated. Trained to know when it should restrain its urg to lunge for the jugular all the time in its pell-mell pursuit of the truth. Teach it to make peace with my fragile humanity and recognize that I am as frail as any other human being and there is really only so much truth I can take before shit starts breaking down on an epic scale.

A part of me was wisgusted just to type those words. Admit limitations? NEVER!  I am a truth warrior! I am The One Who Sees! I am the ideal rugged philosopher who will pursue the truth no matter the consequences! I AM VERY SMART.

But even us geniuses are, at the end of the day, still human.

And that means we have to respect our own limitations.

Even when we don’t want to.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.