“So how was this week for you?”
“It was…surprisingly good. I’ve actually been feeling really normal for the last few weeks.”
“Well…not, you know, crazy.”
“And what is ‘crazy’?”
Therapists. Always with the questions.
Crazy, meaning manic cleaning sprees and compulsive decluttering (RIP, toys and clothes that I found on the floor in my mad dash to toss anything superfluous), and that overwhelming feeling that my space does not feel ‘right’ and that chair needs to go. Right now. I have to throw it away. There are too many pillows on the couch. I need them gone. There’s a plate in the sink WHY IS THERE A PLATE IN THE SINK WHY IS EVERYTHING FALLING APART THE HOUSE IS A MESS I CAN’T TAKE IT
That kind of crazy.
Crazy, like the rootless anger surging just below the surface, searching eagerly for an outlet. Crazy, like the lighting-quick switch flip that takes me from semi-rational to out-of-control rage, as though some cruel demon has decided to take my body for a spin. Crazy fists pounding, broken glass.
Crazy. Pacing the same quick path around the apartment, my mind stuck in a mad monologue that keeps going going going without reprieve. Crazy, when every sudden movement or sound makes my body tense; when everything seems so loud and someone is talking to me but the words are just filling my head, making no sense, and I can’t remember how to answer.
Crazy–reading the harsh judgment in every gaze I meet, flooding my mind with the invented criticism of others. My heart beats faster and I go on the defensive, encasing myself in walls because everybody is bitches* today. Paranoia, convinced that my neighbor thinks I’m a negligent mother and is going to call CPS because one of my children is crying.
And then there’s the other side. The endless tears with no source but the bleakness that has permeated my mind. The numb, blind staring–mind unable to cope, body unable to move. The heaviness, the utter bodily weariness, yet the dread of sleep because the thought of a new day is too much to bear. The kind of days when the slightest request feels like an impossible demand, and being asked to find a shoe or push a swing can reduce me to tears. Eating on autopilot, mindlessly munching not because there is any hope of filling the void, but because it’s something to do and doing things is so hard right now. Knowing how pathetic, how teen-angst all of this sounds on paper, yet feeling so hopelessly lost that it doesn’t matter.
The isolation, feeling lonely so lonely and wishing hoping praying for something, someone, to come and relieve me of this despair. But God is not a genie, apparently, for no midnight caller appears to bring comfort.
And yet, in spite of all that, those days (weeks, months?) of ‘normal’–sad but not immobilized, angry but not out of control–those times when you get to step off the ride and just cruise along for a while…
Those times are glorious.
*’Everybody is bitches’ is my favorite phrase for those days when I just can’t stand to be around people. It amuses me when little else will. I want to put it on a t-shirt.
What is your ‘crazy’?