OK, here's a confession that oughta keep the JU attack dogs on the ready. Might get a flame or two off of it (good chance to test the ol' delete button).

The truth is, I have bouts of paranoia. Not JUST that; due in large part to my horrendously dysfunctional upbringing, I could occupy more than my share of a shrink's time.

But, along with other things, I have learned to DEAL with my paranoia (unique, huh? Probably what people did BEFORE psychotherapy). Fortunately, none of my "eccentricities" is significant enough to pose any threat to myself or others (although depression came close a couple times, but I've learned how to deal with THAT beast; having an understanding spouse helps IMMENSELY). Now, don't get me wrong; when I say "paranoia", I don't mean the cartoonesque conspiracy theorists who think the government drugs church's fried chicken to keep the black man down; I mean the serious type of paranoia that often has you checking the house for evidence of bugging device.

So, why don't I seek help? I've thought about that for a long time, and I think I have the answer.

You see, with paranoia, as with depression, I am often a prisoner in my own mind. Depression, for instance, I analogize to "being in the talons of an icy beast".

But the thing is, with both "disorders", my imprisonment is finite. The "beast" lets go, and my paranoid mind gives way to the easygoing individual that characterizes my more lucid moments.

With drugs, however, this isn't the case. I have seen family members changed by the psychotropic medications meant to treat these conditions. My father, for instance, is 58, and has for more than 5 years shown symptoms usually associated with advanced Alzheimer's. He has written numerous threatening letters to government officials (while ON his medications), and I am not kidding when I say that, a few years ago when the guy was going around planting bombs in mailboxes in Iowa, I was VERY close to calling the FBI and suggesting they investigate my dad; his location and state of mind at the time gave me good reason to consider him a potential suspect. My dad has been in a prison ever since he started on his medications.

So, to put it succinctly, in dealing with these issues, yes, I am imprisoned in my mind. But it is a finite imprisonment, and we have learned to laugh at the eccentricities that result. With drugs, however, it is an imprisonment that NEVER lets go.

If my problems ever become intense enough to cause me to be a threat to others, I will seek "professional" help. I've even advised my wife in that area, just in case I'm not in a state to make such a judgement. But as long as they remain eccentricities, and the sunny days outweigh the cloudy ones, I will continue to be who I am.