THE OBSESSED by Alfonso Álvarez Villar

 

 

Psychiatrists classify among feelings and tendencies what they call "obsessive impulses", that is, those forces that, in a more or less irresistible way, incite us to do something that goes beyond the framework of our prejudices or moral norms, but that at the same time it falls within our habitual desires and passions.

Who has not felt the temptation - as more than one psychologist has said - to throw any person casually leaning on its curb into a well? Who has not been disturbed at some time in their life by the pathological suggestion of pressing the alarm bell, for no reason, on a train in full speed? And so in this same tone we could cite example after example, occurring in normal people, but without failing to underline the highly rare nature of this phenomenon.

Well, despite the unusual label that psychology gives to this "experience", it is so common for me that I am going to feel like a different man when Doctor X manages to remove it from my spirit (assuming he succeeds).

But, by Jupiter!, ill-considered reader, do not believe that the person who writes this is a complete madman. I swear on my honor. A little bit fantastic, yes, I am, and I also have a bit of an analytical and verbose mentality. But this is not enough reason for me to consider myself insane (I am now tempted to write some foul words here so that my readers feel offended).

And returning to our topic: it seems to me that I had said that that "demon of perversity" (that's what that other maniac Allan Poe calls him) was almost my daily bread. Temptations of this type, such as shouting in the middle of a symphony audition, or the much more gruesome one of murdering loved ones like my own parents, without, as one would expect, any motive, frequently assailed me. I can also refer to the case of that girlfriend I had two years ago, and from whom in the peak moments of our passion I was forced to separate myself from her, a victim of strange desires to strangle her. But I don't want to go into too much detail telling you the background of my "case."

Because, in fact, I must say that until just six months ago, that phenomenon would not have presented a pathological aspect, and in any case, it would have remained a mere easily repressed inclination, without translation into the external world. I think it is convenient in this regard to summarize here the medical history that Doctor X keeps in his files. Undertaking this task, then, I must tell my readers that from the age of 14 to 19 these symptoms appeared in exceptional cases, although more frequently than in the majority of people. But, in reality, this process did nothing more than follow an arithmetic progression throughout those five years. I am referring rather (and I use psychological terms because I have always been a fan of psychology) to the date on which this obsessive tendency was projected onto a real level.

My memory has failed me since then: the electroshocks applied to my brain have made me forget many of the things that have happened in recent months. I only seem to remember that then I was in a continuous nightmare. Any circumstance or any object created that pathological state in me. It was increasingly difficult for my will to veto the externalization of those impulses. This must have lasted five or six months.

I also remember, although in a very blurred and very distant way, that blasphemy (I am very religious), which I uttered at the top of my lungs in the middle of a theater full of audiences. And now I remember (one image is linked to another) that wedding in which both parties were good friends of mine. The priest had already twice asked the witnesses to the ceremony to communicate before tying the sacramental bond if they found any impediment in that union. The power of my will was already on the verge of collapsing. And indeed, when repeating the warning for the third time, I exclaimed in a stentorian voice that yes, there was an impediment. Of course I had the good idea of ​​pretending to be the victim of an epileptic seizure, so that stupidity had no consequences. The trick of the attack helped me on more than one occasion to escape with a certain decorum from other situations that were even more ridiculous.

For example, I know that the series of extravagant acts I committed at that time reached a truly alarming number. I repeat that I have forgotten almost everything, but I think I remember a certain punch I gave to a peaceful passer-by and a no less categorical hug to the Lady of Elche in the Prado Museum.

I am going, therefore, to limit myself to referring here to the decisive fact that has me locked up in this asylum cell. I also want to justify to my readers that absurd action that gave rise to so many comments in the press. It is precisely these comments that have prompted me to write these lines, because, frankly, I am already tired of seeing myself treated like an abnormality by people less intelligent than me. To hell with them!… But let's get back to the thread of our story.

Of course, I can assure you above all that it happened in one of the stations in Madrid, and around noon (these data have also been confirmed by the newspapers that have come into my hands). On the other hand, the reader did not ask me what I was doing in that place and at that time. The fact is that under a heatwave sun I was walking along the empty platforms when, suddenly, I was stopped in front of one of those gigantic electric locomotives that my readers may have seen at some point pulling an endless row of carriages. It was, in effect (so the newspapers say), the express machine prepared ad hoc destined for I don't know what Spanish city. But these last ones are reflections made after the fact. I stood still, I repeat, and as if attracted by an irresistible force, I began to carefully analyze the connecting rods, the nuts and in general the smallest mechanisms of that steel monster.

All this lasted approximately ten minutes, because when my gaze fell upon the half-open door of the vehicle, I was assaulted by the sudden and irresistible idea (which I transformed into reality) of getting inside.

Here memories fade like shreds of a fantastic dream that the lights of dawn dissipate. I guess, of course, that, victim of another new temptation, I must have started the convoy, by dint of manipulating the levers of the machinery, because all that follows is a "sensation of movement" or, to put it more precisely, a crazy race of two rails that were narrowing towards me at dizzying speed, never ending. I also seem to remember the telegraph poles that slid from one side to the other of the road, as if they wanted to flee.

I guess that the fear of falling into the clutches of the railroad employees (who must have noticed my "maneuver") prevented my hand from undoing what my obsessed mind had started, but it is no less true that "then" the wind that whipped my face when I looked out the window and the rapid procession of the tops of the pine trees that quickly followed each other to the right and left, inoculated me with a wild joy, very difficult to discover now. Then I think I got tired (I get tired of everything) and about a hundred kilometers from Madrid I abandoned the convoy in a deserted place from where I walked back.

My memories are blurring again to an even more intense degree, and furthermore I have no desire to continue this story. The vision of a Court and judges who acquitted me pass confusingly through my memory (it is known that, giving in to a new temptation, I informed the police of my "feat"). The fact is that now I am in this sanatorium (not crazy) where I am recovering.

 

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