When my blood level was tested a couple days ago, the results showed that I was at half the therapeutic dose for clozapine, which probably explained James. But there were other more bizarre possibilities that accounted for James. I couldn't rule out everything.
I sighed, and admitted to myself, and my mother over the phone (who had no reaction to this), that perhaps (a perhaps that is and remains to be however small) he was just a real function of technology and the government spying on my neurons and inner thoughts because I was very special and an interesting subject. Something about psychosis makes us very narcissistic.
James is buried in there like a fat, shiny tick, pleased with his meal of flooded blood. I asked James that if I got a brain MRI, if he would show up. He replied yes. I asked him when he slept. He said he slept when I did (I do sleep a lot). What about family? Friends? It's just a temporary assignment until I can convince you to die.
I halt at giving James too much time and attention. I want to strengthen and give notice to the sane parts of my brain, not engage and thereby engorge the flat out madness that my illness brings.
Of course, I did not share my theories with any of my Stanford doctors. I almost confessed my craziness to the charged nurse, but changed my mind at the last minute. The psychiatrists are on top of it, and have increased my clozapine by 100mg. I just can't help but wonder what happens if James doesn't go away. What does that mean? Clozapine is arguably the best antipsychotic we have.
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