Racing thoughts of nothingness. Inability to concentrate. How much of my life’s experience has been illness undiscovered? How much of life is a disease? I am stuck in myself. I shift like a rubix cube when I am around people. My state is inexpressible. I am frozen. I am perplexed by the colourful stack of periodicals behind me. Am I still crazy? Going crazier? It’s possible. It’s probable. Mania creeping up in me. On the brink of the recommencement of my formal education. Oooh, but Janis Joplin makes it all better.
I click my name on Facebook and wonder which is a more real version of myself. I registered with my school’s disability services. I HAVE DISABILITY. This is shocking news. Instead of being just a bit too spaced out, a little too moody, the extend of my oddness is an illness. I need to be careful not to over identify, to start thinking of myself as broken or incapacitated, because that’s not what this means. But I don’t know what this means. Again, I’m different. My reality is skewed, my reality doesn’t get to be a straightwhitemale neuro-normal reality. I am so frustrated with my existence. I’m frustrated with my brain. I’m tired of it, I want a different, calmer brain. I can’t have that. Ooops. Well, I can change the way I think and that will change my emotions and how I experience life. So everything’s fine. I just can’t see that.