Nothing's wrong, really.
It's just that dettol wasn't made for polishing blades but when you find yourself ditching everything else for doing just that, little does it matter what's made for what. What matters is how readily you do it, as though the whole point of you has only been transforming into a handy kit that serves the impulse; the manual being the sharp, instinctive urgency.
You see, my impulses are my artefacts. You could radiograph the whole of my being and my impulses would light up in spaces, unoccupied and pre-occupied, disappearing and metastasising, as they please, on follow-ups. You could claim
them to be pathological but they are versions of me compressed into little radio-opaque shadows, enforcing symptoms only to make me live a different version of me. At all other times, they relegate themselves to being my silent artefacts, existing and non-existing simultaneously.
Forgive me but I don't have the luxury of rationality. If it's urgent for you to define me and define this, it is urgent for me to polish my batarangs, with dettol.
With all due-respect, this isn't to mean I have anything against you trying and (or even obsessing over, if it ever comes to that) solving me. This is to mean I have something sharp and ready. May be we all have our own obsessions.
But if being me happens to be my very pathology, may be you're right, when you say something's wrong.