Control: Who I Used to Be

I, Dalton Lewis, hardly remember who I was before I became mentally ill — before I contracted paranoid schizophrenia, a disease that no one knows why it happens or to whom. I remember that I used to daydream a whole lot — I remember walking to school at Nanzan Daigaku in Japan when I was twenty or so. During the walk I would dream of all the stories that I would write — some about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and some about my own intellectual property, a series of stories set in a realistic far future.

I was a geek. I loved to read fantasy novels and literature. I remember enjoying Kurt Vonnegut and Toni Morrison and John Gardner, but I also remember enjoying David Eddings and Terry Brooks and R. A. Salvatore who wrote fantasy epics. Before I paid attention to comic book properties I loved fantasy stories. I loved Dungeons and Dragons. I remember playing with my friends in middle school and then in high school and then in college. I played many games in which I ran adventures and played all manner of characters. I remember we played all night once while I was on vacation from college, playing several adventures one after the other. Good times.

I am not that person. I don’t know if I should be that person. A guy I know, Terry, said that I could go back to being that person who wasn’t mentally ill and broken. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I know that on certain days I can barely finish a sentence. I know that I have real trouble working or finding a job. I ruined my life getting a mental illness, some people think. I don’t know. I want to be that person but not at the expense of the person I have become. I like who I am — in spite of any disadvantages that I have.

I remember not knowing how to be a good person yet. I remember drinking occasionally and not feeling any need to drink every day. Studying Japanese seemed natural to me, but I didn’t retain the education that my parents spent thousands of dollars giving to me. I went to the University of Iowa for an English degree but didn’t take the right writing classes to learn how to be a better writer.

I worked out. I ate well. I rarely ate a cheeseburger at a burger joint. I ate sub sandwiches and salads and chicken and rarely ate steaks or desserts. I was smart, well-spoken, and had a number of intelligent friends. I was on my way to being a successful and important writer, but something happened. This is what happened: my writing didn’t move anyone. It didn’t impress anyone. They thought that my writing wasn’t something special yet. I think that the failure of my writing career is why I had a breakdown. I didn’t like who I had become — a failure of an adult, trying to be a legendary writer and failing. I didn’t care about myself much so I started to daydream about being someone else. I never stopped daydreaming, and twenty years later, I have a gut, a mental illness, and a lot of wargaming miniatures.

Why did I fail? I don’t know, but I won’t stop trying. I will never stop writing. I don’t care if five people is a good number of readers. I don’t care if I never make money writing. No one can stop me from continuing to write. As far as who I used to be — I don’t hate that person. I wish I could have the best of who he was. Who I am now, though, isn’t that bad either. I don’t mind him at all.

Thanks, and take care, friends.