Intestable
From Dictionary.com:
Not legally qualified to make a will, as an infant or a lunatic
A familiar feeling is building inside, that of mounting, oppressive pressure and anxiety. Except that whereas before these feelings were the result of serious depression (brought on by who can say?), this present weight comes from a deep paranoia of others. I never thought of my tumultuous mental history as something that could in any way be of benefit to me, but it is now being used decisively against me. They say I am not merely unhappy, I am unwell, that I am a danger not just to myself (that was never in doubt--I have endangered myself on several occasions) but to those around me, that I am unfit for normal society. My whole life has been dragged out before me and presented as a collection of diagrams, graphs, and short narratives that together are entirely foreign to me and show conclusively that I am sick. My committal is a long overdue but inevitable culmination of my mind's dysfunction. I am the only one who doubts the validity of their claims. But my stance is faltering, I am slipping. And as I sign the numerous papers they present to me, I feel the overwhelming weight of their convictions crushing my own til, despondent (again and always), I begin to wonder, Am I unwell?
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