Pseudologia fantastica.

Pseudologia fantastica is the name of the condition I am considered to have. In other words, I lie. I lie about small things; I will tell my wife that I had a large lunch at work in order to not eat the filth she calls dinner. I lie about important things, like the fact I have a wife and two kids, when really I live alone. My lies are my life. I know no different. Sometimes, I forget what the truth is and what I have made up. This makes my life somewhat confusing. Yesterday, I spent two hours claiming I worked in an office building opposite McDonald's when I don’t have a job at all.
I stayed at home all day yesterday, locked in my room. I was building a model aircraft for the big race at the weekend. I painted it grey, blue and red - my favourite colours. I decided to go into the garden to fly it, it was beautiful. A mixture of black, yellow and green flew through the air. Those are my favourite colours, that’s why I chose them.

Today I decided to visit the supermarket for some groceries. I thought I might be able to pick up some macaroni and cheese as well as some spinach. Mixing wilted spinach with macaroni and cheese is exquisite and it makes a healthy dinner. My wife says I need spinach to stay strong and healthy.
At six o’clock in the evening, I ate dinner. It was disgusting. I’d been given Mac’n’cheese with some sort of leafy green mixed in which had changed to the colour of vomit when it had been cooked. I hated it. After I’d finished it, I put my toothbrush down my throat until I threw it up. Then I had a piece of chocolate cake.

I’m not allowed any pets, I’m highly allergic to them. If I go near the fur of a cat or a dog, I start to sneeze. Then my face swells to the size of a baby elephants. Soon after, I find I cannot breath and must have a injection of medication immediately or I will die. Dying is something I do not want to be doing anytime soon as I quite like my life. I have a wife, two beautiful children and a dog to care about and to support financially. I love them all very much and they are so kind to me. My wife cooks me delicious dinners and my children give me wonderful gifts on my birthday, Christmas and fathers day. Why would I want to leave them? And that is why I cannot eat nuts, because I’m allergic and do not want to die.

Living alone is not an easy thing. My mother worries about me, calling me three times a day to check that I am alright. She likes to drop hints that her friends have daughters that are “just dying” to meet me. I tell her marriage does not interest me and that I am perfectly happy by myself. It’s far more satisfying than being emotionally attached to someone.
Sometimes, on weekends, I like to visit my parents gravestones. My father died at war, he was a brave man whom everyone thought highly of. Soon after my mother received the news of my fathers death, she died herself. I think it was because her heart was broken. I was then orphaned to a horrible family who beat me regularly.

         When I was seven, a few days after my mother left me alone (after deciding that now that my father was dead, she could finally go live with the man who she was having an affair with. This man lived in America.), my aunt adopted me. She was a kind woman, who was plump and always merry. She used to buy me one of those giant lollipops from the pier every Friday when she came home from work (she worked at the amusement arcade collecting the change from the machines).  She always bought me a pineapple and coconut flavoured lolly because they were my favourite. She did not have a husband herself, so she used to spoil me with treats at the weekend such as trips to the theatre. Sometimes, during the week, she would let me come to work with her and let me play for free on the arcade machines. I was the best at playing pinball and had the high score on all three of the machines. These were the best years of my life.

Every day the doctors come into my cubicle and tell me to take my medication. Almost every day I refuse claiming I am not ill and must leave this place immediately. They grab my arms as I attempt to run. Sometimes I punch and kick but they fight back. They’ll strap me to the bed and insert a needle deep into my arm. Soon I am pumped with sedative so strong, I fall asleep for the day and wake up at night feeling bemused, calm and giddy. I giggle at the sounds of other people in the rooms next to me, snoring or shouting that there are others in their rooms with them. That isn’t true of course, they’re just imagining things. People do that a lot here.

Today the doctors have come in and told me they need a urine sample and a blood test. I tell them I must leave immediately as my wife will be waiting for me and dinner will get cold. They tell me I have no wife. I scream. And once again, sedative creeps through my veins.

I wake up drowsy and realise I am not at home, I remember that I have a model aircraft race this weekend and try to escape out the door. But it’s locked. A passing nurse tells me not to worry and that I won’t miss the race, this calms me slightly so I sit down on the floor and look around. There is a folder on a table in this room of which I open and read through.  I am appalled at what I see, it is full of lies. Lies that contradict my memory and my knowledge. The first line reads:

Name: Lucifer Walker.
Age: 55 years old.
Admitted: 1970.
Condition: Pseudologia fantastica/compulsive lying/delusional disorder.