The last few days have been a torrent of horror. I couldn’t write anything here for fear of spewing unending mantras of hate and agitation and depression. I’ve been running up and down the streets of Seattle (too dark to wear my normal, depression-hiding sunglasses) crying openly without caring.
Everything was twisted. I couldn’t go much longer than minutes without seeing what I call future flashes, or screwed up delusions of what my mind was trying to trick me into doing next.
“I’m sorry brain, but I still have enough frame of mind to keep myself from putting my hand in a hot frying pan, or trying to use a pen as a weapon, or walking out in front of a car.”
These moments leave me hanging on each and every move I make, second guessing everything, reacting slowly, sometimes not responding at all to questions or things around me. Holding on so tightly takes an enormous amount of energy, and when in doubt, it seems all I can do to combat these absurd urges is to do nothing.
Being afraid of yourself means that many other things no longer illicit fear. I told Corey I was going to make a double batch of Top Ramen, mixing the “oriental” and “pork” flavors.
“Aren’t you afraid?” He replied.
I laughed. How could I be afraid of noodle bowl flavors when I was so hung up on my own safety and sanity?
Coming out of this place of fear is almost as jarring as being it it. I woke up this morning, feeling like I’d drank too much caffeine. Wide awake, like my skin was about to crawl off. Now that it is mid morning I am feeling the energy subside a bit, but I never expected to be waking up woken up.