I don’t mean to alarm you, Dear Reader, but I think I am losing my shit.
I’ve written before about depression, and loneliness and Otherdom, but I’m not sure that I’ve been fully forthcoming about the amount of BATSHIT CRAZY that I have locked away in my little closet of horrors. For sure, you’ve had your suspicions (don’t lie, it’s written all over your face, not to mention in your body language as you sit there, nodding your head vigorously in my general direction) but trust me when I tell you, any small moments of pause you’ve had in your interactions with me are but tips of the iceberg.
I am, what I like to call, a functional lunatic. It’s like being a functional alcoholic, but instead of vodka stashed in my desk drawer, I have Anxiety, Mania and Fury. They loaf around all day playing games of Rock, Paper, Scissors to see which one gets to manifest at any given moment. And yeah, none of them like to take their meds, so it’s kind of like a circus geek show in there: a bloody, horrifying mess. Years of practice have enabled me to divert outsiders’ attention elsewhere and away from the center ring when the carnage is in full swing, but there are periodic spans of time when my sleight of hand just isn’t good enough and can’t quite drown out the screams of agony behind the curtain.
I’m coming up on one of those times.
It could be the insomnia (you try startling awake in terror 8 or 9 times a night and let me know how sane the next day’s mindset it), or the nightmares (yes, when I AM actually sleeping, it’s only to be attacked by snakes or strangled by shadowy assailants), but either way, my grasp on patience is slipping and what little social aplomb I had walked out the door about a week ago.
You may be inclined to feeling sorry for me at this point, but I assure you that I’ve been dealing with this for so long, that I know what’s coming. It’s the people that I love that suffer the most. Right around now, my friends stop getting phone calls and messages will go unanswered for weeks. I will reach out one day, only to pull back completely the next, worried to open the floodgates on the chaos in my head. Instead, I opt for isolation and cold indifference. It becomes impossible for me to show affection or kindness or anything other than total irritation. Everything grates; like sandpaper on a sunburn.
As these episodes wear on, my façade crumbles a little bit more and I’m less able to pinpoint what brought them on. There used to be triggers, definite beginnings and ends, but now, lately, there are only sleepless nights punctuated by occasional decent days. It’s not my job this time, or someone else’s actions, it’s not the weather or a deadline. I have nothing to worry over or be anxious for…it’s just the slow leak, the quiet sssssssssssss of my mind as it goes missing.