More Mooner Disclosure; Who’s The Dissociative In Your Identity Disorder?

 

So. I’ve been hiding a basic flaw in my mental chemistries from you and it seems that the time is right for me to disclose a little more to you. The circus of brain cells that is my mental state is quite the hodge-podge. Not necessarily advanced brain cells nor brain cells with any intellectual enhancements, just multiple and varied problematic disorders.

You all know about the significant ADHD—the only case of Contagious ADHD ever diagnosed and approved by the American Psychiatric Council. I have also told you of my mild case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and how I use that one to help control the ADHD. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson thinks I might have caught that one on purpose as a young teenager when my attentions were so deficited that I couldn’t tie my shoes for awhile. I needed something to help me focus, and since this was before the invention of ADHD and it’s little sister ADD, I was simply a disruptive little shit, and who knew that speed would slow down an ADHD sufferer’s thoughts?

Now is the time to enlighten you a bit further (farther?) in both the lengths and breadths of my mental illnesses. I wasn’t planning to ever share this little tidbit with you, but my own stupidity has forced my hand. Here’s what happened.

Remember when I got the Proof Copy of my book for me to review before final printing? Remember how it was all fucked up? Well, I fixed all of that, made some adjustments inside and out, and now I have the Final—the actual original copy number one of my new book, Full Rising Mooner.

As I did with the proof copy, I unveiled this final version at the breakfast table this morning. I wonder why so many of my life’s highest and lowest moments occur at that table and during those hours?

I passed the book around and got many oohs and ahhs. Everyone was mightily impressed until it got to Gram. My grandmother clenched the evidence of three years of my life in her vice-like claws and silently examined the cover. She’d read then stop at a part, stare for a minute and then direct and refocus the stare at me. Then she went back to staring at the book and then at me—a repeated action, and several times.

She held the book, front cover out, and pointed a bony finger to a spot at the top. “Who tha fuck is Dam Leggerly?” Then she gave me the evil eye.

“It says “Don Legacy”[,] Gram,” my mother replied. “You remember, Mooner’s imaginary friend from when he was just a little tyke?”

Now the evil-eyed stare lasers to Mother. The air hissed and crackled. “Ya mean tha little shit I over-dosed with a potion an’ we gunny-sacked him back to tha creek?”

I had been blaming Don Legacy for every bad decision I made as a kid and the family got tired of it when I was ten. Actually, it was just before my tenth birthday. We had a ceremonial drugging with one of Gram’s hallucinogenic potions and the unconscious body was bagged in a gunny sack, weighted with limestone rocks from the creek bank, and then the heavy bag containing Don Legacy was pitched out into the deepest part of the creek.

“That’s the one, Gram,” Mother told her. “I haven’t heard that name in decades.”

Now the book and evil eye make a ninety-degree turn to my end of the table. The heat of my Gram’s evil eye is palpable even at the ten feet distance. “Why inna fuck is his name onna cover a yer bookie, Mooner?”

Oops, and ugh. Fucking oops and a really big fucking ugh.

“Well, er, ah, I.”

Think quick and think smart, Mooner. I stumbled and mumbled a minute and then I thought, fuck it. I might as well fully disclose my childhood actions. “After you guys walked away from the drowning, I jumped in and pulled him to safety and gave Don Legacy mouth-to-mouth. He coughed-up a bunch of water and came to. All he could say for quite a while was, ‘Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.’”

“Son-of-a bitcher!” Gram almost shouted. “I knew I shoulda blasted that little shitball with my 12-gager.”

Now Mother took a turn at me. “Mooner, I don’t think I have ever been so disappointed in you. This is the most underhanded thing you have ever done to me.”

“Wait,” I said, “you mean this is worse than when I flushed the cherry bombs in the church commodes to get out of Vacation Bible School?” Mother, and actual school teacher, was my class’ Bible School teacher that summer.

“Don’t get smart with me, mister,” Mother chastised. “This is a serious breech of my trust in you.”

Anyway, once I had been scolded as only a houseful of Johnson women can do it, I took the animals on a fishing trip to the self-same dock on the self-same creek where we attempted to drown Don Legacy.

Squirt was the first to bring the subject back into focus. “Jesus Christi, Senor Mooner. What the fuck is a Don Legacy?”

“That’s a tough one, Squirtie,” I started. “Dr. Sam I. Am says its called Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID. But she’s wrong because that would mean that I am psychotic and delusional, like what a schizophrenic is. Don Legacy isn’t an illusion or some silly voice in my head, I guess the best way to put it is that he is a resident inside my head. A brain squatter, if you will.”

“Well,” Squirt advised, “you better find a way to tell your blog readers about this. If they get a-hold of your book before you disclose this shit to them, they’ll be confused. And pissed at you.”

“You’re right, little lady. And thanks for using English for all of that. I’m too brain fritzed to even attempt a translation.”

“De nada, and mucho gusto,” she replied.

Much pleasure, indeed. Ugh, you guys. Why did I decide to use Don Legacy as the ghost writer for my book? I thought it would be clever to write the book like I, Mooner Johnson, was an inhabitant inside Don Legacy’s skull. You know, juxtaposition as a literary device.

But look, I’m really not all that crazy, I simply have another man living with me. All the time. In my head.

I’m just glad we get along.

And I need to get along as well. Drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

4 Responses to “More Mooner Disclosure; Who’s The Dissociative In Your Identity Disorder?”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I’m just glad you pulled the little shit out of the pond and helped him find his lungs, Mooner. You might not be half as sane as you are without him to blame shit on…

    When do we get our free copies? Or better phrased, when will Barnes and Noble have my book in stock?

    Inquiring minds want to know…

    Hey, saw a clip from the Republithug debate last night in which your governator made the following comment to Michele “Batshit Crazy” Bachmann, “If you’re suggesting I can be bought for $5,000, I’m offended!”
    Yeah, he’s a lot more expensive than that these days… ask Exxon Mobil, DuPont, Dow Chemical, Frackjuice Inc, etc.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. OK, first, laying blame is contra-intuitive to my psycho therapy, but I’m looking forward to having an excuse for my bad choices. As for the book, I should have production copies soon. I’ll get your specifics and mail it to you. Or bring it if we can mesh details for me to visit Vol land.

    You notice he didn’t say he was ofended for her saying that he could be bought, but bought a a low price. It’s like the old joke whose punchline is, “Now that we know you’re a whore all we have to do it determine the price.”

    Too fucking appropriate. FUCK RICK PERRY, and the rest of them as well.

  3. Mother fucking son of a bitch. You may (or may not) be planning a visit to Vol land and you didn’t clue your 12th wife to be in on the shit?! Just like a man. And I happen to KNOW where to get Carta Blanca here…But FINE…as you wish.

    As for D.I.D. – I totally LOVE all of your mental health references. I think Don Legacy is a GREAT alter-ego and choice for your ghost writer. I fully expect my AUTOGRAPHED (and un-ejaculated upon) copy of my book in the near future.

    And truthfully, I’m getting a little more nervous about fucking Rick Perry…he unnerves me.

  4. admin says:

    Reck. Man-typical, I first discussed this with Squat and mentioned what if I could make it out there and would you and he and BJ and maybe some others be ables to drink some beers. I was going to say something directly to you when plans were more clearly defined. I do worry about your feelings and didn’t want to get your hopes soaring, only to later dash them to shreds.

    I am a man, and a sorry excuse thereof. Therefore, please accept my deepest and most heartfelt apology. I hope to have a set schedule until end October and then plan a November visit. More to follow.

    As for DID, I don’t know why I tried to hide it from everyone. It isn’t like I’m all that extra crazy to have a mental tenant. Right?

Leave a Reply