I’d Be Crazy to Escape

The question posed is, “Why don’t you escape the asylum” That’s the wrong question to ask. It should be, “Why don’t you want to escape the asylum?” This inquiry will result in a fuller, more honest response.

First, one person’s asylum is another person’s Club Med, minus the turndown service and all-you-can-eat buffet. As the sole proprietor who built this asylum, without a background in construction or a doctorate of psychiatry I might add, it’s of my own design. Since the beginning, I’ve overseen the broad spectrum of daily operations. Just me, no help from mid-level management or frontline support staff. I’m the judge, jury and intake coordinator.

Second, how can I escape when the doors I crafted and so lovingly installed are padlocked on the inside and outside. This ensures that those housed here, including me, cannot leave. Keeps us sequestered from society. And the industrial-grade bolt cutters stored in the maintenance shed are inferior to the titanium security bars covering the windows. That’s intentional. Those dwelling here should not mingle with the general population.

Third, the supposed crazy exhibited is my normal. Others may view this confinement as punishment, but it’s not. It’s what I know. Yes, escaping from here would “free” me from this institution, but where would I go then? I’d inevitably be captured and forced into a different place. There, I’d be stripped of my seniority and control. Or worse. And what about those left behind? What fate would befall them? Without proper leadership, anarchy assumes power. Infrastructure deteriorates. I don’t want to subject those I’ve forsaken to this uncertainty. We’ve been through too much together. It wouldn’t be fair or just.

Fourth, over time I’ve developed coping strategies for dealing with all who I’ve let into my asylum. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I prevent outside forces from entering which would corrupt the balance between the inner workings and those residing here. While what’s happening in the confines offers me perspective. Looking around is a constant reminder that it could be worse. Better the devil you know.

And most importantly, this is my sanctum. I want no part of the depravity performed by others on the outside. Granted, some folks can amaze me with their feats of kindness. But those moments are few and far between compared to the multitude of acts that gnaw at the sinew of society’s moral skeleton. The pointless inhumanity shocks me.

Leaving here means direct exposure to that, increasing the odds I’ll be victimized. I am confident my self-preservation skills would carry me through a zombie apocalypse unscathed. Less sure of my survival chances to withstand protracted exposure to the madness displayed by the public.

I’ve grown accustomed to the neurosis I’ve generated. I’m okay with it. If I’m introspective, I could even banish the troublesome aspects and learn from them. That’s a potential worth sticking around for. So, I won’t escape this domicile because living here is more rational to me than living in the supposed “sane” world.