One of my favourite books in my teens was Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse. I had read all of Hesse's novels but that one left a deep impression on me. However after a life of encounters with madmen I think they are easier in novels...
All my life I have attracted madmen; paranoid, possessive, intense, demanding lunatics and antisocial outsider weirdos who want to control my every move, thought, feeling once I am in their orbit. I have always fought for them, tried to include them by committing social suicide myself, been their bridge, defended them, bolstered up their self-esteem at the expense of myself. I have emotionally over-functioned, tip-toed around their talent and tantrums, listened to their lunacy (usually bizarre paranoid fantasies or conspiracy theories) and indulged their delusions – whilst neglecting my own daydreams. I have nurtured them and cultivated their (usually vast and unique) creativity whilst neglecting or completely abandoning my own. I have put my entire being on hold to accommodate them. I have held myself back, procrastinated along with them… I leave my life to sit in hell with them or manage their chaos only adding to my own (and I am chaotic as it is!) The time has come to admit that I myself am mental and I don’t need any more madmen in my life. I am perfectly capable of nurturing my own unique madness rather than attending to theirs. The truth is I enjoy the company of madmen but it is hard work being their lover too, they immediately expect you to be their carer and that becomes a heavy burden for me. It is much easier being single and having a madman as a friend (because let's face it, they make for great and interesting conversation and never a dull moment with a madman!)
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