Start Fiction:
Perhaps they had never gone away, the voices; however, they were stronger, more powerful, more distinct than years ago. Recently I found their influence overwhelming, and at moments I felt they were on the verge of taking over completely.
I debated at times if I should just give in and let them, or one of them, run things for me. I knew I had overcome a lot since my last episode; however, I wasn't sure I was ready to just give up, either.
There had been several episodes over the course of my life, at least that is what the doctors called them. I had always felt that I just had a extremely active imagination. That being said, I also knew I wasn't right in the head. But this round of voices felt different than the last; I wasn't convinced they were actually coming from inside my head or if they were being placed there.
While I knew I may need some help, I wasn't about to reveal a new set of episodes to any one just yet. All they would do would be to alter my diagnosis to a paranoid schizophrenic and pump me full of more meds. That wasn't going to help; just like that last twelve times.
Bustards; did they ever think there was something wrong with everyone else and I, and others like me, were actually the ones who were right in the head?
Obviously I never agreed with the doctors, shrinks and counselors. I did what they asked me to do, participated the best I could in the alteration to my cognitive set they attempted; it all "failed". In the end, all they really seemed to care about was jamming meds down my throat.
End Fiction.
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