“I mean, I’m still crazy, if that’s what you’re asking. There has been no change on the being crazy front.”
“I’ve noticed you use that word a lot, crazy. And you sound angry when you say it, almost like you’re calling yourself a name.”
“Well, everyone’s crazy these days, Dr. Singh. Adolescent sanity is so twentieth century.”
“It sounds to me like you’re being cruel to yourself.” After a moment, I said, “How can you be anything to your self?
I mean, if you can be something to your self, then your self isn’t, like, singular.” “You’re deflecting.” I just stared at her.
“You’re right that self isn’t simple, Aza. Maybe it’s not even singular.
Self is a plurality, but pluralities can also be integrated, right? Think of a rainbow.
It’s one arc of light, but also seven differently colored arcs of light.” “Okay, well, I feel more like seven things than one thing.”
“Do you feel like your thought patterns are impeding your daily life?” “Uh, yeah,” I said. “Can you give me an example?”
“I don’t know, like, I’ll be at the cafeteria and I’ll start thinking about how, like, there are all these things living inside of me
that eat my food for me, and how I sort of am them, in a way—
like, I’m not a human person so much as this disgusting, teeming blob of bacteria,
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