All I can say is, reality keep changing. One moment, I feel ready, eager to die. Then suddenly I wake up- it really felt like waking up- and I am wondering who that scary suicidal person was, who was that living in me, thinking my thoughts for me, going to such dangerous places. What is going on?
I made tea, and moved the kettle from the burner, and saw the red hot burner. I had an impulse to press my arm against it. I had to twist myself down to the floor and crawl to the living room. It is a very short distance, but I yelped in agony upon reaching the ground. What is happening, that I must actively protect myself from self-harm? I feel myself a lunatic. It is far more comforting to call myself crazy than mentally ill, or whatever other term there may be, because it feels crazy. I need to share how scary this is. Not even out of a desire for sympathy and understanding, though that of course is there, but the main motive seems to be to let it out of me, to give it light, to make sure that, ha, that I’m not crazy, but that these experiences are crazy, manic, wild, unbearable, fantastic in their scope, crippling in their resilience to my attempts to heal. Heavy, light, spinning through the matter of my mind, until I am falling, collapsing on sidewalks and alongside walls, unable to lift myself out of chairs, faces around me far far away. I am floating through air. I am close to death, it seems, but fighting for daylight, for a way out, for something that doesn’t burn.
Finally, do excuse what are various typos, from time to time. I do not have the energy to review these writings, though often find them a few days later. Professionalism will have to take a back seat to, well, me.