My son and I were discussing art today, and the subject of Superrealism came up.
As you may know, Superrealism is created by replicating photos, but with a twist: unnaturally heightened color, exaggerated perspectives, unusual narratives. It’s equal parts fascinating and unsettling.
A memory crashed into my consciousness, and I shared it with him.
For a few months when I was fifteen, I smoked weed with friends pretty regularly. This was before my conversion to Christianity, and well before it was legal in my state.
My experiences while high were usually negative and sometimes terrifying- not unlike my reaction to roller coasters. It was something supposedly “fun” that scared the wits out of me.
I continued to ride roller coasters after discovering that I hated them, sure that whatever thrill others enjoyed was waiting for me just around the corner. And so it was with weed.
I walked to my friend’s house one winter night and gloomily smoked weed with her. This was out of the ordinary, because it was a school night. We usually waited until the weekend to smoke, and there would often be a sleepover, so I didn’t have to face my parents while high.
Now I had a perplexing dilemma. I had to walk home, and on the way, I needed to sort out my sense of time. I knew it was distorted when I was high, but in which direction? Was it speeded up or slowed down?
I settled on slowed down. This was essential to establish because I knew exactly where my dad would be when I walked in the door. He would be in his favorite chair (why does every dad have a favorite chair?) and listening to music through headphones.
This is where precise strategy was required. The headphones had a cord that attached to a stereo system. To hang my coat in the hall closet, I had to step over the cord. When I executed this action, it had to be done at the correct pace in order to deflect suspicion.
Since I had decided that my sense of time was dragging, I speeded through the step-over-the-cord-go-to-closet routine, thinking I would hit the sweet spot I was seeking. I was wrong.
“Whoa, Ede! What’s the hurry?”
Busted. My life was over. He knew. HE KNEW.
Instead of answering, I numbly turned and walked toward my bedroom.
“Wait a minute, Ede.”
Dead. This was it. I was dead.
He held up the issue of American Artist magazine he’d been reading. “I want you to look at this article about Superrealism. I think you’ll find it really interesting.”
But I knew what he was doing. What he really meant was: “I want you to look at this article about Superrealism (because you’re HIGH, and I’ll be able to tell just how high by how you react). I think you’ll find it really interesting (because freaks like you dig this stuff, and I’m on to you.”)
I must have figured out that my time perception adjustments were unnecessary, because I easily handled taking the magazine from him and walking to my room. But when I sat on my bed, I was shaking uncontrollably.
I hated myself for doing something illegal. For potentially destroying my parents’ trust in me. But sometimes, another part of me relished the illicit thrill of breaking the rules. This wasn’t one of those times.
I decided to try to pass the test. I opened the magazine to the Superrealism pages. I would figure out the correct response; what a not-high person would say about the art.
The paintings jumped off the page and scrambled my brain. A street scene, yes, but so detailed it was almost obscene, and in colors so vivid they left an after image when I closed my eyes.
I braced myself for the interrogation. I waited. And waited. Nothing. Still shaking, I took out my journal and wrote down what was happening, the fear and the guilt and the confusion.
What I wrote was profound. Every word carried the weight of truth. Amongst other brilliant observations, I described how my parents could hear my heart beating from their room. I had never written anything so powerful before.
Yet when I read it the next day, I realized that it was by far the dumbest thing I’d ever put on paper.
I got through that night somehow, and my dad never administered that Superrealism pop quiz I dreaded. But there were times I wasn’t just paranoid or guilty, but truly psychotic on weed.
Cannabis can be a miracle drug, and I am 100% in favor of it being available legally. What I discovered years ago, though, is that this particularly ride will never be fun for me.
I even had a bout of Reduplicative Paramnesia once while high. That’s thinking that everything you see has been removed and replaced by an exact replica. Try explaining that to your fifteen year old friends. They laughed. I truly believed that my brain was permanently broken.
Which brings me to my son. I told him that there appeared to be an underlying, dormant psychosis in my mind that weed uncovered. And that, I told him, is the reason I’ve landed on for his schizophrenia. I’m pretty sure I carry that gene, though my diagnosis is bipolar (I’ve heard they’re related).
He thanked me. Why? He said I’ve always supported him. There didn’t seem to be any context for that remark, grateful as I was to hear it.
But on some level, I understood what he meant. Thank you for being like me. Thank you that I’m not alone. Thank you for taking it even one step further, and celebrating this thing that makes us both incontrovertibly weird and wonderful.
Maybe our minds aren’t broken. Maybe they’re Superreal. And maybe that’s occasionally even fun.
#Bipolar #Depression #GAD #OCD #PTSD
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