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Flynn Story
The madness swept over him in waves now, frequently as not drowning out any
semblance of reality; its presence an all-encompassing darkness prevailing irresistibly over his
mind; a world of warring shadows and fleeting images of what used to be. Behind his
despondent eyes loomed a vast pool of oblivion where upon occasion you might detect an
indistinct flicker of light, indistinguishable in that if one could actually peer into the human
mind you might wonder if you had seen anything at all. Yet, for a moment, seemingly so
intense that the interior of the cranium illuminated with a hint of genius, purpose, and
possibly more … Hope … But, no, whatever you thought you had seen was gone and you were
left wondering if you had seen anything at all while you quickly looked away lest the contagion
afflicting this poor soul should overtake you as well.
Ah but it has, as that momentary look into his eyes has taken you captive, having
shanghaied you upon a journey into the world of a madman’s mind. A world where jungles
are as dense as they are dangerous, desert mirages are realities eagerly sought after, and deep
crevasses and canyons resound while rivers of pain and torrents of fear, worry, and doubt
make their way towards the cold murky depths where they coalesce into what is now all he
knows himself to be. You are along for the ride … Wherever the road may lead … Whatever
the future may hold …
Madmen inhabit the earth in significant numbers, though their presence rarely noted
unless, of course, they are famous for vile acts of murder or mayhem. Otherwise, the average
madman himself is seldom, if ever, seen. He may reside among us in the same community;
sometimes working at the same job; perhaps even living next door. We, in our higher plane of
cordial bliss, assume they are all locked up securely somewhere out of sight … Out of mind. It
is we who choose to not see them. They are invisible because we have cloaked them with
invisibility, sweeping them beneath the carpet of our consciences as one kindly covers the
dead—not so much for the sake of the dead, but for the sake of those forced to look upon
them.
Let us now meet our Klingon friend, who lives his life hidden behind the cloaking
device we have bestowed upon him. His invisibility has rendered him what’s his face or
what’s his name to most. Even to those he considers his friends, those who actually know his
name, he has always been a bit odd, but they have been impressed over the years—perhaps
with a pinch of jealousy—with his talents and abilities, and a confidence which, to them,
bordered on arrogance. They could not help but take note that he fanatically gave his all to his
every endeavor and, despite those who might secretly hate him for it, reaped success. Shane
Lipinski exhibited all the appearances of a man having his life together, his ducks all in a row.
That is, until the day they all noticed … The change. Something was different. It had
always been there looming in the distance; something elusive which they could not quite put
their fingers on; something which made him different, in an inexplicable way, from
themselves and others; something which they could not quite understand or pin point. Now,
jangling alarms were going off within their heads signaling a warning that something indeed
was most definitely wrong.
He had always changed jobs quite frequently over the years. Though that had come to
be considered a no-no in today’s society, to his friends it seemed that he was focusing on what
was truly important in life—that being money—and with each job change came an increase in
income for their job wandering friend. Whenever it might look as if he had reached the end of
his employment rope, low and behold, he would always land a job better than the last.
One day, he did not land that new job … An undeniable sign that something had
changed …
Unknown to them he had been desperately pushing a very large boulder up an ever
increasingly steep hill for these many years. Appearing to be audacious and conquering the
world to those outside, inside he had been growing weary for quite some time and the boulder
of success had long since begun to roll back down the hill upon him—overtaking him for all his
friends to see and, of course, the small-town in which he lived. As the scent of blood coursing
through the sea will draw sharks for miles around, or the smell of blood in the air draws
wolves, the vultures of a small community gather hungrily with ravenous eyes to feed
impatiently upon those who have fallen maimed or crippled. Gossip is their feast and they
feed well upon it reveling in its filth—proud of their catch and greedy for more. Keenly they
sense death is near and await its every throe. Let the feeding frenzy begin! The most energetic
of vultures are, of course, always those you believe to be your friends ...
What his friends presumed to be audaciousness and arrogance was in reality a simple
defense mechanism deployed to deter those who might destroy what little confidence he had
in himself. He had fought desperately to live up to the status quo; be what everyone expects a
man to be; work hard, earn a living, and support a family. They were unaware of the fact that
essentially he was damaged goods and had been most all his life.
In today’s modern terminology, he was dysfunctional—the byproduct of a
dysfunctional family. The many ingredients which had contributed to the molding effects of
____________
“Life's a bitch and, then, you die—not near soon enough!,” had become Shane's motto.
This line of reasoning usually ensued when he made his regular appointment to the
MHMR office. As is so often the case with small towns, this small-town was not quite up with
the times, new millennium or not, as though the date 2006 meant absolutely nothing to city
officials, much less city planners. Shane consoled himself in the fact that there even was an
MHMR office in this, Podunk2, Texas, small-town, where Mental Illness was a word always
whispered behind hands that sought to conceal gossiping lips.
It came as no surprise, upon his first visit, to find the MHMR office located in a
building along with various other medical doctors, dentists, and practitioners. So a special
treat was in store for those who entered, as they received the privilege of sharing the waiting
room with other patients, each with appointments and doctors of their own. Somehow, the
privacy clause which protected MHMR patients from others knowing they were nuts had long
since been nullified by simple and logical deduction. Clearly this small-town considered
HIPPA to be a Yankee form of the word hippie, rather than a law passed in 1996.
Patients are people, though not always treated as such, and people in general are not
stupid. On the contrary, given time, even the dumbest of us would take notice of which nurses
or employees work for which doctors, after all it is human nature—worse still, it is the
vulturous nature. While all eyes watched attentively, the nice lady—who so obviously worked
for MHMR—would come to the doorway and call your name, and bingo: Everyone instantly
knew you were an MHMR patient. From that time forward, you were not looked upon quite
the same. You were sinfully, nakedly, visible. Normal folks now saw you whether they desired
to or not, and not was what they desired. Privacy had become an idiot’s illusion. If you
believed it, that in itself was evidence you were mentally deranged.
One fellow in particular, as chance or karma would have it, always seemed to be there
when Shane made his monthly visit; always staring with an angry look of disgust. This fellow,
Bill Payne he had heard his name called, would get up from his seat and move as far away
from him or other MHMR patients as possible—increasing the discomfort level in the air
immensely by the very act of doing so.
Many times, he had prayed that Bill would stop coming, find a different doctor
somewhere else, move away, anything but sit there and stare at him every visit to the MHMR.
If he was seeing a dentist, just how many teeth could the man have?
In disgusted desperation he had offered up one final prayer, “Please, if you won’t heal
me, at least let this jerk know what it feels like to walk in my shoes. Maybe then he will stop
staring and mind his own damned business.”
Shane felt he was paying for his sins—paying for the hateful and selfish way in which he
had treated his own mother—and obviously, to him, God was sending Bill to punish him for
his wickedness. How long would he have to pay? He knew he deserved forever—and then
some.
It was on his next visit, as he was asked about his spiritual life, that he learned one of
____________
Just when the ship of his life seemed becalmed upon a dead sea, he landed a job. An
aluminum recycling plant was located just outside the city limits. He had applied there several
times without any result. The company suffered from a heavy turn over of employees, and
Shane was sure that out of shear desperation and lack of other applicants they had given him a
shot working in production on the midnight shift. The wages were not at all what he had
grown accustomed to over the years, but it was steady work. He had heard that the company
usually ran a skeleton crew during the night and that, at least, would allow him to not have to
deal with so many other people. He worked best when he worked alone.
Several months went by and, to everyone working at the plant, Shane was doing a really
bang up job. He appeared as if he liked the midnight shift, and he seemed to get along well
enough with the other guys he worked with. He was giving it his full one hundred percent
effort just like he had done with every job he had ever had.
As a few more months went by, the picturesque atmosphere at work began to darken,
with storm clouds gathering. It was happening again. Shane could see the cycle was about to
repeat itself … Not so much the cycle, but him—always him—always moving. It always
started with the manner in which he fanatically gave his all to everything he did. Sooner or
later, those you work with will begin to resent your well intended efforts beyond the call of
duty, especially if it falls into the category of being beyond what they themselves are willing to
contribute for the good of the company.
More times than he could remember, it seemed he could always count on at least one
individual to, eventually, develop a nasty hatred or resentment of him. This had been Shane’s
life since grade school. Every year, and in each new school he had attended, there would
always be that divinely designated person whose assignment for the entirety of the school year
was to make Shane Lipinski’s life miserable. Perniciously singling Shane out, he would
relentlessly hound him without mercy. Being the new kid in town was not all it was cracked
up to be. The new kid does not belong. From the first breath, some children are often born
with the propensity for being the cruelest of creatures. The new kid always seemed to bring
this latent talent to the surface as though one were awakening a sleeping bear. Being the new
kid on a continual basis fed his acquired appetite for worry—truly his worst enemy. He was
beginning to get that old familiar feeling once again. It usually triggered the move.
No one could possibly be a harsher critic of Shane, than Shane himself was. This was
____________
... The incident came as no surprise, though his ever fiber had hoped against it ever
happening. It would have been nothing big to most folks, just a little disagreement, where one
of the men on his shift had made a wise crack about him being a brown-noser. Shane had
tried to take the comment in a friendly manner, and had even responded jokingly that the guy
was full of shit.
This brought about an angry response from his coworker. “You act as though you own
stock in this company or something. You’re the shift foreman’s personal little shadow!”
The entire confrontation lasted only a few minutes. His coworker was over his expletive
venting of personal frustration, and within a short while, to him, the whole episode seemed
quite trivial. He knew Shane wasn’t really a brown-noser, but with Shane working as though
he were killing snakes, it caused everyone else on the shift to look bad unless they also picked
up the pace …
____________
… Several days later, Shane was still upset, living out in his mind the disagreement
with his coworker. Having taken every word to heart, he felt that this must be what all his
coworkers thought of him. He had gnawed upon it night and day, like a dog with a bone, since
it had happened. He could think of nothing else. Common sense told him to let it go, but he
simply could not get it out of his mind. It might take a few more days, or another week, before
his mind would be able to turn it loose. After all, just because you're paranoid, does not mean
that someone is not out to get you. A little paranoia can be a good thing—at the right time.
If not, like a stuck record, he would keep playing the entire scenario through his mind
over and over again—dissecting it piece by piece, word by word, motive by motive—in
beating a dead horse until in the end he simply wouldn’t be able to think or care anymore. It
would be time to crawl in the car with his mom and step dad and move on to a fresh start
where things would be new and without problems, without worries, at least for a while.
As men peer out through the bars of their prison cells, to have it sink in at last that
Trapped ...!
This feeling had always caused Shane tremendous mental duress, to the point of melt
down. Something had to give. Because, his mind had already entered the process of melt down
—having reached critical mass—months ago. The circuit breaker within his mind, carrying the
high amperage current of all his pent up worries, was ready to trip, and he knew that when
that happened he would cease, entirely, caring about anything or anybody, as his mental
survival instincts took over. Surviving to Shane meant moving, moving away from anything
or anybody that caused him this unbearable anguish.
Before he had swallowed his pride, facing the truth, and admitting to himself that he
needed psychological help, booze, drugs, or both had been his avenue of escaping the
impending threat of mental meltdown. With medication over time, he had calmed the desire
to use alcohol or drugs to treat his symptoms, but no prescription drug is without side effects
and his medications seemed to leave him empty, dead, and emotionless inside. Outwardly, he
gave those who wished to believe he was well that appearance, but inwardly the raging
machine of worry continued to fester. Pills treat symptoms, but they do not have the power to
heal the mind. Shane had given up praying for that. He had given up praying at all ...
His only solace was playing his game. It had become an addiction, a frightening rush
that set him free from the storm brewing in his mind, if only for a short while. If you play a
game long enough, one day the game will beat you. Shame’s Game had evolved into a new,
more terrifying edition. Shane knew it was The Final Solution. Sure, to let things go this far
was ridiculous, against everything that he believed, and absolute shear madness, but someone
had once said, “fatigue makes cowards of us all”. Fatigue had wrung Shane out like an old
dishrag, and hung him over the sink of tears to dry—leaving him fixated upon his own pain,
unable to think of family or friends ...
A few days more went by, and his coworkers knew something was wrong. They really
enjoyed giving Shane a hard time. He usually made them all bust a hump to keep up with his
work pace, but now he was not the same. His interest in his work seemed to have suddenly
vanished. At lunch breaks, he would go off alone and eat his meal. No longer was he a threat
to his coworkers. They did not have to worry about him making them all look bad or work
harder. Something else, he had stopped talking. One of the guys had even commented to the
others, wondering if he was doing drugs again or back on the booze. Though they would never
____________
… While the molten aluminum popped and sizzled, continuing to cremate his body,
Shane suddenly realized that he could hear a voice calling softly in the distance, “Shane, Shane
Lipinski.”
____________
When he awoke, he sat there for a moment, very still, before taking a deep breath. He
could smell the over powering scent of the chlorine used to draw the impurities out of the
molten aluminum and, something else, something nauseatingly repulsive. It was faint, but it
was there, the aroma of burning flesh—his flesh.
Tears had begun to stream down his face long before he ever opened his eyes, as he
realized that this had all been only a dream, not an irreversible reality. He had simply dozed
off while awaiting his monthly MHMR appointment, dozed off while playing Shame’s Game, a
____________
… The sky over the lazy small-town rumbled that day without a cloud in sight as the