His or Mine?

The definition of insanity is telling people that the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

It isn't.

My teeth dig into a leather armrest, fidgetting nervously, obsessively picking at my own hands because its new and it'll keep Dr. Monde interested and excited. I've never hinted at having any form of anxiety before, but its his favorite explanation for why I attacked Richard with the remote control two months ago when he wouldn't stop trying to suck on my fingers. I like to do little things for him.

"What does the inside of my mouth taste like?" I rasp it out before a fit of wild thrashing, making sure to convulse enough to seem compulsive but not too close to an actual seizure. I briefly wonder if that's actually a good question.

He remains impassive, waiting for the fit to pass even after I throw a squishy, stress ball past him to rebound off the wall and *snap* against the back of his head. He takes it all in stride, the picture of calm, but frantically scribbling notes on my every move. He is in love with me, but not the person in front of him. Over the weeks I've provided him with groundbreaking data for a thesis that will be famous and entirely contradicted in week. He assures me he is alright when I reign myself in.

He thinks himself my first. Asking question after question as he imagines I have no history before him, not one that matters really. He's made one up for me to suit himself. He guesses I am homeless. I am unloved. I am abused. he is gracious. He is sharp. he will understand me and develop a bond, put me back together or be the manager of my madness. He is a hero, explaining away a private wonder for disgusted onlookers in white coats. Better than the men who wear blue, they're too smart to love me as the doctor does, far too smart to believe the tears as the intellectual pieces together for me an alternate reality where I am the urchin he desires.

He imagines he's taking care of me, helping me, saving me from the life in the alleys with its sharp edges and screams. he is saving me from not just the noose, but the imaginary boggart in my head that clearly must have transformed me into someone else, someone meant to be here before him more than the person he sees through his rosy glasses. His smile brags that he can box it in when the whole point is that it is uncontained. It is to be uncontainable. I can't really go to pieces and come back because falling apart means being irreperable or else I couldn't possibly of truly been really gone in the first place. If I could come back then "I" was just overshadowed by the mania but still somehow intact this whole time, that's called denial not insanity.

And yet Dr. Monde persists. If am a lucky I will be free in a years time and when I am I will visit Dr. Monde to see how well he recognizes me without restraints.