Had I been writing in my journal? Well, that's what my therapist had asked me. Yep. Everyday. Why? Because it was a troubled time so I needed to write about how troubled of a time it was. The crime rate was at its high in Gotham and there was nothing that had excited me more than crime! That was probably the euphoria. And then other times I would slip into delusions...
Wasn't that funny, a clown who had delusions?
You see, I had been diagnosed with shizoaffective disorder. As Arthur, though, and not as the Joker. Shizoaffective disorder was a mental health condition, which included shizophrenia and mood disorders. Basically bipolar and depression.
Had I been feeling any periods of improvement? My therapist asked me. No. The answer was no. When I got manic periods of high energy, that was the first time I found myself on the Murray show. I'd learn, later on, that all he wanted to do was make fun of me.
So, was I doing best with a combination of medications and counseling? Also no.
Most of the time, I believed an ordinary event had special meaning to it. A personal meaning. To me. Then there were the racing thoughts and what my therapist called, a false belief of superiority. Ha! False belief? My superiority was anything but false, especially since I had been on the Murray show and picked out from the audience. There was something special in me and I wasn't the only one who saw it. Other people would end up seeing it, too.
Anxiety wasn't really funny. Hopelessness wasn't funny either. And the limited range of emotions made it almost impossible for me to get any chicks. Especially the loss of interest in pleasure activities. I never lost interest in shooting the bad guys, though, and it was much more fun when it was in real life and not in video games. Those guys on the bus shouldn't have beaten me up. Why? Because I was a clown?
So, there was depression. Social isolation. Self-harm. Then a sudden increase in energy and I'd be back on my feet as I worked on my comedy career! I didn't think my therapist thought I was serious about it. She never laughed at any of the funny jokes I thought up and wrote down in my journal. Sometimes I'd crack up at the voices.
Oh man, I always had tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. How could I not get that under control? Why did I need to? Because it made passengers give me weird looks? Buddy, I had problems! Because if I wasn't laughing, then I'd have to focus on the pain and the brokenness. And how I hadn't slept in days.
I was so sick of the appointments. Yet, I felt better when I was in the hospital, locked up. Why was that? Maybe because I couldn't be destructive there. So I had to do everything I could to work on my career in stand up comedy.
Death could be funny, especially when there were so many different ways to die. Or maybe it was just because I was mentally ill. You could tell your parents, "I'M GONNA BE SOMEBODY!" And then get hit by a bus. That's what I wanted to do most of the time, but in my gut, I knew I could be somebody.
"It's great just like on TV." I told my therapist. "When they say that they're gonna be somebody and then get killed. That would be the legendary death. Or accidentally beating yourself up."
"How could you beat yourself up?" My therapist asked.
"Well, my head beats myself up all the time!" I laughed. "But I do have a very good looking face and why would I want to ruin my reflection?"
When I could ruin somebody else's reflection. Maybe, if I made someone else feel bad like I do, I wouldn't feel so bad anymore.
"The funniest way to die is by laughing, of course." I told her.
"Well, I believe that." My therapist said. "Surely choking on oxygen wouldn't be very funny, right, Arthur?" She asked me.
"No." I said. "But falling off a chair…Well, that's another thing for the TV to make funny. I already have enough brain issues so if I fall off the chair and land on my head, then that's the end of me."
Then I went home to my mother because I still lived with her. She thought I was mentally ill. I didn't hate her for having me committed. I understood why she wanted me to be committed, but at the time, I didn't know she adopted me. Why would she keep such a big secret from me?
"Mom, I was wondering if you could ask the doctor to increase my medication." I told her.
"Arthur," she said, "you're on seven different medications. They must be doing something."
I didn't want to tell her I was still feeling bad.
When I wasn't Arthur, I liked to dress up as a clown because I would rather be somebody else; I liked the job. And performing. I didn't feel so bad then.