Thursday, November 14, 2013

Madness

Mental illness is the worst. Someone dear to my heart remains in this world, living, breathing, and talking, but they are not there, they are only a simulacrum. As was said of such people in times past, they are possessed by a demon. I came to visit a year ago, but my visit was unappreciated, and I don't think it did any good at all. One can be here and not be here, can see and yet not see, can hear and yet not hear. Such a person has left the community of living souls and become a mad hermit, isolated, alone, and lonely, oh, so desperately lonely that they commune with the dead, who are closer to them than the living. When last I visited, the black-and-white photographs of long-gone ancestors were of greater interest than anything I had to say, and when after many hours of listening I made clear I needed to adjourn for lunch, sour resentment was the result.

I wish to visit, but I think such an effort would be wasted and only for my own benefit, but I am not sure whether there is any benefit for myself. My memories are better than the present. I would only be perceived like a distant noise, and all that I said would be either unheard or misinterpreted, and my visit would soon be forgotten.

I am reminded of a coworker who had a mad woman living in his house, his aged mother, whose mind was irreparably gone. In the past, she had been kind, he said, but now, she was possessed by a demon and did everything possible to disrupt and distress. She would throw food at the walls, bang on the walls at night to wake people up, scream, moan, yell, and say hurtful things. He believed it was his moral duty to keep her in his house. He hated his brother for not showing gratitude for his sacrifice and not helping. I sympathized with him and thought him a good and decent man, but I was uncertain regarding the morality, because his mother had lost her wits beyond recovery, and made miserable the life of his entire family. I felt there was not only his mother's welfare to weigh, but also the welfare of his family and even of himself. Self-sacrifice appears noble and good, and it moves me, but can it also be a subtle form of selfishness? I think there is something known as the "martyr complex," wherein one may be too ready and eager to sacrifice, apparently, one's own interests. No sacrifice is free of cost. With each sacrifice, one reduces the capacity to support other good and worthy causes. To sacrifice for one cause is to say that it is worthier than other causes.

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