Main Character Syndrome
by
Beatriz Seelaender
My doctor diagnosed me with MCS (Main Character Syndrome) after careful cross-examination – I had most of the typical symptoms, she said. For starters, I am an only child. Of divorce. And then there was the staring through windows in public transit, always a given. I confided in her that, often, I pretended to be looking at something specific, squinting at some detail or traffic sign on the street, all the while my intent was deadest on daydreaming about inconsequential scenarios. Do you often listen to music when you indulge in these thoughts? Of course. Moody indie rock, they say, only white dudes like. And then come the opening credits of some half-baked mumblecore sketch not entirely based on my life, and the synopsis, and the details I shall steal for a salvageable short story once I start writing it. The doctor smacks her lips, perhaps considering internment. You do know there’s no camera, right? I consider internment, how nice peace would be, how reassuring – a green badge of honour. Sometimes I think there is a camera in the sense that I believe in omniscience. This omniscience godless? That’s not for me to say, I say. When I was a kid, part of me believed I was just a doll in a dollhouse, but I decided against it once I realized I couldn't come up with lives as detailed as those of my own dolls, meaning no one was coming up with my life. When I am dreaming, I can always tell I’m dreaming. It’s called lucid dreaming, she says, and it’s a symptom of Main Character Syndrome. Discernment? Stubborn and systematic undermining of the tangible. Oh, okay then. Do you feel watched? Sometimes, when I do something daft. No one is actually paying attention to you. That’s actually quite comforting, I say, shutting the door at the camera’s judgmental eye.
This diagnosis is no longer a death sentence, you know, the doctor lets me know. It used to be, “make something of yourself or else,” you know. I know, I say. These days, the prognosis isn’t as bleak. There are all kinds of main characters, all kinds of hero’s journeys. There are anti-hero’s journeys. And stories where nothing much happens. You don’t have to go off and fight in the Trojan War, the way you used to. I’ve been such a good secondary character in other people’s stories, though, I say. I’m that perfect combo of well-meaning and neurotic. I’m a caricature of myself. I’m staring at the camera in comic relief, just to get to say that I knew all along that the camera was there. Whoever portrayed me in a movie would get an Oscar nod, what with how I forget to carry myself. I carry myself uncaring for myself. As someone with blurry outlines, I make for a formidable supporting character. This is a death sentence for me, doc. For me, in particular, yes.
Well, there you are, claiming to be special again. Textbook, textbook MCS. Anyone could see it. If they were paying any attention, which they aren’t, since you are not in fact special. It’s a generational affliction. Children of participation trophies, rolling her eyes. Red flag. I never got a participation trophy in my life. I have never participated in anything I was not sure I could win. Oh, you, you’re a Type A Main Character Syndrome Sufferer, she answers unimpressed, without looking up. How novel, she says. Yes, in your case, the risks are higher. The prognosis is poor. Poor, poor me, you must be thinking already. You see, that’s the problem.
Do I have to disclose this to other people? Of course – potential partners and employers should be able to make informed decisions about your predicament, on whether they should want it to be their predicament as well. As your doctor, I cannot disclose it myself, but I must advise you to. The consequences of your illness are often borne by those closest to you. I start crying, but shouldn’t everyone be the main character of their own story? That’s exactly the type of deranged thinking that causes you to hurt others and yourself. You aren’t special. Enough with this wonderful life nonsense. There will be no special treatment. All your life, people have told you you were special, and you believed them. That’s on you, basically. There are pills you can take. But this malady is nothing short of incurable. It’s treatable, but incurable. So is life, so is death. I can give you a sick note for your boss, but I would have to mention the reason by name. Is there really no way they would keep you?
I explain that my boss has a license to operate as the Main Character. He’s often out and about with his ghostwriter/personal biographer. He cannot risk having another MC in the vicinity, even if someone like me could never manage to obtain a license. Tough luck, kid. Don’t romanticize it, and don’t let it martyrize you to yourself.
This diagnosis is no longer a death sentence, you know, the doctor lets me know. It used to be, “make something of yourself or else,” you know. I know, I say. These days, the prognosis isn’t as bleak. There are all kinds of main characters, all kinds of hero’s journeys. There are anti-hero’s journeys. And stories where nothing much happens. You don’t have to go off and fight in the Trojan War, the way you used to. I’ve been such a good secondary character in other people’s stories, though, I say. I’m that perfect combo of well-meaning and neurotic. I’m a caricature of myself. I’m staring at the camera in comic relief, just to get to say that I knew all along that the camera was there. Whoever portrayed me in a movie would get an Oscar nod, what with how I forget to carry myself. I carry myself uncaring for myself. As someone with blurry outlines, I make for a formidable supporting character. This is a death sentence for me, doc. For me, in particular, yes.
Well, there you are, claiming to be special again. Textbook, textbook MCS. Anyone could see it. If they were paying any attention, which they aren’t, since you are not in fact special. It’s a generational affliction. Children of participation trophies, rolling her eyes. Red flag. I never got a participation trophy in my life. I have never participated in anything I was not sure I could win. Oh, you, you’re a Type A Main Character Syndrome Sufferer, she answers unimpressed, without looking up. How novel, she says. Yes, in your case, the risks are higher. The prognosis is poor. Poor, poor me, you must be thinking already. You see, that’s the problem.
Do I have to disclose this to other people? Of course – potential partners and employers should be able to make informed decisions about your predicament, on whether they should want it to be their predicament as well. As your doctor, I cannot disclose it myself, but I must advise you to. The consequences of your illness are often borne by those closest to you. I start crying, but shouldn’t everyone be the main character of their own story? That’s exactly the type of deranged thinking that causes you to hurt others and yourself. You aren’t special. Enough with this wonderful life nonsense. There will be no special treatment. All your life, people have told you you were special, and you believed them. That’s on you, basically. There are pills you can take. But this malady is nothing short of incurable. It’s treatable, but incurable. So is life, so is death. I can give you a sick note for your boss, but I would have to mention the reason by name. Is there really no way they would keep you?
I explain that my boss has a license to operate as the Main Character. He’s often out and about with his ghostwriter/personal biographer. He cannot risk having another MC in the vicinity, even if someone like me could never manage to obtain a license. Tough luck, kid. Don’t romanticize it, and don’t let it martyrize you to yourself.