Subconsciously Insane

"Questioning sessions" were always the same. The doctors wanted me to talk about what had happened and why this dementia has such a hold on me, yet they never really believed me when I told them the truth of the matter. Today, it's the same thing all over again. I'm ushered into another one of those nice little rooms and left alone to wait for the psychologist to arrive.

"Hartman, Matthew" reads the label on a file. All the notes about me and how crazy I've become, I presume. Not that I care enough to read through it. I know myself; I mean, if I was crazy, how would I know who I am? Contrariwise, if I wasn't crazy, would I even be able to understand myself? I suppose lunacy is just a part of who I am.

The doctor enters the room and shakes my hand. I could read his nametag but I don't bother to. He'll just be like all the other ones who end our sessions by giving me that look – you know, the one that mixes horror with confusion and tells you how little they think of types like you.

"Matthew, or do you prefer Matt?" He asks in the I'm-trying-to-be-nice-and-understanding voice.

I have to think about this. Seems that until today, I must've forgotten my own name, or even what I prefer to be called. "Matt. Because, doctor, it rhymes with 'hat'." I say this confidently and only realize after a brief silence that my reasoning sounded screwed up. Oh well, they'd think I'm loony anyways, with or without that wisely chosen comment.  

Matt….because it rhymes with hat. Huh. There's something about that word. Hat, hatting, hatter – a person who has hats. Or makes hats. So if Matt was a hatter, I'd be a matter. That is; I'm just mad, crazy, impossibly demented. Mad Matt, maybe that's what the doctors and psychologists call me. But I know a place, in my head, where the others called me that. Wait, no. They called me the Mad Hatter. I tried to explain that my name was Matthew Hartman, but they just laughed and danced in a circle and decided to change my name. The initials didn't change, though, and that's why my faded brown coat has the letters M.H. sewn on it in gold thread.  

Should have never been reading late at night while intoxicated. But I'm one of those people who can drink and retain a (mostly) clear head. Of course, it's hell to try and sleep when I've had a few. The result: reading at odd hours of the night. I think that's when it started; because instead of waking up in the morning with a hangover, I literally was woken up somewhere else. Not my bed, in my apartment, but slumped in a high-backed chair, with my face pressed against the long table in front of me.

Some stupid rabbit woke me up, saying that I'd be late for tea if I didn't get my bloody face off the tablecloth. Kind of had a crazy look in his eye. Pretty sure that it was contagious or something, because now I'm the one who's crazy. I tried to figure out where I was, but the rabbit and a mouse that decided to show up kept saying that I'd know when I'd know. I think that was a riddle for 'you should know your own home'. I wasn't who they thought I was, but I never said anything, just played along.

Years later, I think, in the middle of running away from some tall guy with a sharp red sword, I was transported back to my house. Well, it would've been my house if I hadn't been found in a coma. It was a miraculous recovery, but due to my strange story (which is undoubtedly the truth!) I've been trapped in these hospital halls ever since.  

So in a way, that's why I'm sitting in an empty room, staring at a stupid white wall. I used to be Matthew, and now I'm Mad. What I am, I wouldn't be; and what I wouldn't be, I would. You see?