It seems I was speaking too soon. One week of chaos, one almost-week of peace, and then again, chaos. Second hospitalization in under two months. Dear me, the rabbit hole is deeper than I’d have guessed. It always is, isn’t it? I know that my condition is not nearly as severe as many people’s, that I am not “insane”, as it were, but sometimes, I really do lose it. Brief departures of my sanity. Doctors may not agree, but the intensity of what goes on in my head, in my skin, does leave me feeling, crazy.
I was screaming my head off in a bathroom stall. Out of frustration, but frustration with what I cannot say. An internal eruption, a volcano, a pus filled zit, a vile discharge poisoned me. My mind became a slide show of sliced flesh, myself running into cars, diving head first into the pavement from a full sprint, anything that might hurt, that might jar me back into sane being; as though if I could break my body open, the thing, the violent thing, whatever it was, could be released. Usually such breakdowns happen late at night, when I am alone, at home in the darkness. At school, on a sunny day, this was new.
Roger Ebert has died, and the currents of my mind have flown astray. How few of us will be so heralded, so celebrated. Of course, those who love us will celebrate us, and that’s all that matters. So often my thoughts ask “Who will celebrate you?”, and see sad faces, a vague notion of a funeral. It’s scary to visualize your own body, dead, cold. To see yourself as non-living. Some weeks ago I sat in my bathtub, suddenly thinking, what would it be like to be dead, and I realized, it would be, nothing. It would be a full and complete absence of myself. In life, sometimes, I do feel like that. Not a complete absence, but absence enough to question whether it is worth continuing. Of course it is. I know what. But sometimes, something else is at play. Someone else, it feels like. It is so like being possessed. What demons are after me?
It might be psychosis, though it doesn’t quite sound like psychosis. Sometimes I just feel crazy, and I want to hurt myself, and when I look in the mirror, I do not see a form of life that I recognize. I just feel crazy sometimes. If only that were enough to tell a doctor, so that they would understand, and give you a pill and everything would be fine again. Either that or you finish yourself off.
I really want someone to understand, to know what I’ve known, to tell me they’ve felt what I’ve felt. Well, I do have those people, and I am grateful for that, but I guess I want one of the white coats to tell me that. Not so I can be cured, but because, I hate explaining myself, trying to prove that whatever I’m going through is real, and serious, and scary. That it’s interfering with my life. That it looks and feels like insanity. Sure, you’ve seen a lot worse, but for me, this is hell. There are stages and layers of hell, but this is one of them. Feeling out of control, feeling that you need to be in a locked room for protection, is fucked up. I want someone to say that, yes, it is fucked up. It is so fucked up.