Thomas Jackson is my name. I'm never afraid to attach it to my writing or anything else I do.
Every day, I wake up to find myself lesser than when I fell asleep. The optimist in me blames it all on the pills: If it's just the medication, I can just stop. We all know, somewhere, that the pills are the last to blame.
Who would want a deep-water monster like me anyway?
For years, I've struggled with what I call my drowning man. I swam furiously to avoid going under, thinking that the waterline separated my life from my madness. I was wrong. I breathe in the depths of my consciousness, but the rest of you would drown. My shoulders and my legs are gone; my mouth will follow closely. My pen would follow, and the last bit to leave would be my name. Don't speak of me, and I will go away. Teach your children about long leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night. Even if those legs are in restraints and the bump in the night is the glazed look on the faces of those who've heard me cry "I am not mute!" I scream it enough for all to know I'll scream it again at night no matter what's done to ease my pain or just make me sleep. No one has the endurance to hear the choir of voices waging war in my head except me. You'll all say you've done everything in your power to help me, but we still know the truth of the matter: nothing can help me. The best thing you can do is forget me. The other madmen deserve a chance to swim; I am not a result of a rule; I am the result of an exception. Attach my name to someone else, just as it was attached to me. I'll stay in the deep water where you left me, pickled by the poison pills.