self indulgence

The old building creaks and groans in its sleep. But I am wide awake. I am confused, and my confusion brings sadness. My ‘NHS’ pillow feels damp, and I realize I have been crying.
I am confused because I do not know who I am. Or rather, I am lots of people. Which one is really me? All of them? None of them?
I think I was hoping to find the ‘real’ me at the red lantern on top of the bridge. But the well-meaning, interfering cop prevented me. Ronnie Laing thought that it was often better to allow a person to ‘go through’ a schizophrenic episode (with support) and so come out the other side. Unfortunately the medics want to rescue us before we get to that point. Rescue us from what? From ourselves? But when you rescue someone from themselves you have robbed them of their most precious possession. Still, you have fitted them back in the world, and can tick of the ‘successful outcome’ box.
Old Freddie seems a bit different from the other medics I have encountered. We shall see.
I am in this big old hospital, surrounded by tormented souls, and yet I feel alone. I have always felt alone. But the fact that I have always felt alone does not mean it gets any easier.
I have recurring dreams where everyone has abandoned me – left, to go about their own business which does not include me. I am standing in a deserted street, late at night. I think I should go home but I am not sure how to get there; and I am not sure that I want to go there. I am still standing on the empty pavement when the dream ends.