I'm afraid my shrink will think I'm crazy, and try to eradicate that part of me.
I don't want to lose my crazy. I do want to lose my insane. There's a difference, and it all has to do with being functional and accomplishing things.
Crazy is where my creativity and my spirituality live. Crazy is going out and dancing in a thunderstorm and getting completely soaked and hailing Thor. Crazy is waking up in the middle of the night and deciding to walk to the 24-hour coffee house. Crazy is reaching down deep and expressing the unexpressible. Crazy is standing in the middle of a forest or a city and looking around you, feeling the connectedness of everything, and laughing out loud because it is so absurd. Crazy is meditating on a candle flame and seeing the whole universe. Crazy is weeping at the beauty of something as trivial as the shape of a cloud or the perfection of a work of art. Crazy is intimate. Crazy is synchronicity. Crazy is love. Crazy is doing the most godlike thing that we, as humans, can do: create something from nothing. Crazy is the thrumming undercurrent of the primordial drive to survive and create and love and be remembered. Crazy is god. Crazy is really feeling deep down that we are all made of stars. Crazy is beautiful.
Am I one of those people who believe manic episodes can be spiritual? Absolutely. Do I understand the danger? Absolutely. I've lived with this all my life. Every moment of every day. I know how it can so easily tip over into a mixed episode and leave me incapacitated for days. But don't want to lose my crazy. Ever. I pity those who have never experienced it. Crazy makes me want to live.
Insane, however, is another matter. Insane is staying in bed all day because I believe my body is paralyzed (and genuine episodes of sleep paralysis do not help.) Insane is being so afraid to leave my dorm room that I pissed in cups in my room rather than open my door and go down the hall to the bathroom (That was a long time ago, when I was withdrawing from Paxil cold-turkey and had no idea what was wrong with me.) Insane is hearing the music when I take my headphones off and feeling like I can't rid myself of it. Insane is the sudden, unwanted, intrusive thoughts that bring me visions of gruesome acts perpetrated by me, and feeling as if I am barely keeping a lid on it. Insane is having coffee with a friend, when suddenly, her face melts off her skull, and when I blink, the vision is gone. Insane is feeling as if I am falling, falling, falling, faster and faster, into a void, the edges of my vision darkening and blurring. Insane is violence against myself, physically and mentally. Insane is what the pills are supposed to treat, but have, over the years, made worse. Insane makes me want to die.
Not to sound emo or anything, but insane is also the baggage I drag around with me, like Jacob fucking Marley with his mantle of chains. Insane is the veneer of emotions from situations long past intruding on my daily life because one little thing triggers a memory I may not even be able to consciously access until later reflection. Insane is the nightmares about being raped by my father and my grandfather that I am not sure are real memories or not. Insane is paranoia that people in my life don't really love me, and are only putting up with me, and soon it will be time to move on, again. Again...
Insane is also a fear of being found out.
Hi. I am thirty-seven years old. I have mental illness. I am also, apparently, a genius. I was a card-carrying member of MENSA in grade school. Everyone expected that I would do well in everything. I coasted through high school, ending with a 3.5 without having put in much effort. If it hadn't been for math, I would have had a 4.0. I went to college early. Since then, I have been to nine different post-secondary schools. I have enough credits for a Masters, if only those credits were all from the same discipline. I've studied anthropology, sociology, journalism, business, psychology, art, opticianry, ophthalmic medical tech, graphic design, and now, veterinary assisting. I remain just as deeply interested in all of these subjects as I once was, but I never had the discipline to finish what I started. I would do incredibly well for a semester or two, and then, insanity would creep in, and I would stop going to classes. Stop leaving my room. Just stop. Borderline personality disorder, anyone? I think that's what my mother has.
Aside from school, I have never been able to hold down a job for more than a few months. Again, I start out doing incredibly well, garnering compliments like, "You're the best temp we've ever had!" and "I can't believe you picked that up so fast," and "I can't believe you're exceeding your sales goals already!" But then, something always happens. I feel the mask of sanity begin to crack. I start to feel like an outsider. Eventually, I quit before they can fire me. Were they going to fire me? Probably, in a couple of situations, but not in all of them. My bosses, though, couldn't see the emotional and physical pain I was in. It's hard for me to put on a different personality in order to do a job. It wears on me. No, I don't give a shit what happened on "Dancing with the Stars" last night. No, I don't want to go to a bar with my co-workers. I find that stuff boring, and I treasure the time I have off work so that I don't have to put so much effort into pretending. My back hurts, my head is swimming, and I want to go home.
So, I have spent most of my adult life stumbling on the first few rungs of Maslow's Hierarchy, never quite making it to the point of being a fully-functioning human being. I constantly compare myself to other people my age and younger, and I am constantly depressed and frustrated because, dammit, I could have done that. I could have painted that picture. I could have gotten that degree. I could have written that book. Accomplishment. Recognition. Respect. I crave these things more than you could imagine. Insanity has taken them from me. Lack of discipline on my part, and perhaps some undiagnosed developmental abnormality, have kept me from achieving any of the goals I set for myself.
And now, my daily goals include taking a shower and getting dressed. I am infantile in my actual ability to function. It is very hard for me to feel any sort of pride in these so-called accomplishments. I should be a teacher by now, with tenure. I should be an artist, with my work shown in galleries around Columbus. I should be a Master Optician, working in an optometrist's office. I should be well into my externship in my Veterinary Assistant program. I should be, but I'm not, because I am not sane. And I am not sane, in part, because of all my past failings.
Help me, doc. My ears are open. You're the first real psychologist I've seen in ten years. Help me fix myself. I'm not suicidal. I am desperate to live.
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