I am crazy. Not the funny amusing kind of crazy. A bit wild, a bit out there. I am talking bat shit window licking crazy.
The most worrying thing about this situation is that I am almost 40, when in truth I have had the Crazy since I can remember, and have kept it from everyone. The people I love, the people I like and even the people I really couldn’t give a damn about anymore.
I should have explained it to them because it might have given people a little breathing space. However in fairness the CRAZY did sorted the wood from the trees, and at least the people who stuck around, had back bone or masochistic tendencies, for which I am truly thankful.
Nonetheless to my shame, I am guilty of deserting fellow crazies, because I get to the point when I can’t deal with their shit.
The perverse thing about my mental illness is that I think that because I have a real perspective on the black dog, I can be a support. I can’t. I can be extremely selfish. All people can be selfish but in my personal experience, extreme selfishness is one of my starter symptoms of an episode.
Because of my pathologically caring egomania, where I believe if I can help this person at least my crazy is worth something, I have observed other crazies start their episodes selfishly as well.
It can manifest in various ways: sleeping with someone or lots of someones you shouldn’t;eating so much you need a fire engine and a crane to get you out of the house; not eating until you are waifishly thin and on that oh so sexy nasal feeding tube; drinking, smoking, snorting, popping or injecting yourself to oblivion.
The selfishness continues even when you do finally bravely take that step off the platform and fuck up everyones commute and give PTSD to bystanders. But at least your Mum now goes and gets the therapy after your death, which you have always thought she needed, because it is obviously all her fault you were like this. WINNING!
Yes I know I am harsh. I am harsh on myself because that is the only way I have managed survive this long. Trying not to be a selfish arsehole is the only way I can fight this thing, oh and prescription anti depressants for the last 8 years.
But today I am getting help. Yes today I am going to take my first tentative into the world of the Mental Health Services.
On paper, everything is fine. I have a reasonable career, a loving successful husband, two beautiful healthy boys and a house with two old beat up cars, which also I love. I am under forty and living in the UK. I should be on top of the fucking world!
So what happened, I hear you ask? Nothing, I just woke up 6 months ago and everything was grey, not just metaphorically. The world had a dirty hue and nothing looked clean. I did not look clean no matter how much I washed. I looked like a monster. I revolted myself every time I looked in the mirror. I initially put this down to PMS. But after a month of PMS, I realised I had not taken my drugs for 2 months. The super crazy mini me in my head kept things going, “You are fine. Did you see the funny look your parents gave you? They really need to go an see someone. They are the ones making you feel crap about yourself. It is all their fault. Aren’t you glad you are well now? By the way, don’t tell anyone about hating yourself. You don’t want everyone thinking you are a self centred drama queen, its not cool.”
Super Crazy was then joined by Super Scary mini me. Super Scary is a bit like an abusive boyfriend. It starts well, you are a bit euphoric, like a honeymoon period. You think you were always meant to be this way. Things suddenly make sense and you know you and Super Scary were meant to be together. You can do amazing things. People thing you are really funny and charismatic. You start looking good in the mirror again. Actually, really fucking good.
And then Super Scary gets jealous. You don’t look good. Everyone thinks your a dog. How could your husband love you? If he does he is an idiot or just feels sorry for you. God he is boring, if you only listen to me more, you would be so much better. But you don’t, do you, THAT IS WHY YOUR LIFE IS CRAP!!! By the way “your friends” think your jokes are shit and you are fat.
My parents are loving and my husband went to Cambridge and is very funny. My friends are long suffering and are absolutely golden. All this nonsense is from me and my mental illness which is a selfish controlling cunt.
Once Super Scary has isolated you, then it gets bored of you. Why don’t you just fuck off? I won’t miss you. Really no one will? You are such a drag to be around?
To be fair to Super Scary, by this point you are a drag to be around.
You don’t talk to people unless you are being defensive or self-pitying.
Your husband has to put up with night terrors if you do sleep and you are scared to sleep because of a recent episode of sleep paralysis, where a deranged mascara smeared Marilyn Monroe is sitting on your chest trying to smother you to death.
So you haven’t slept for weeks and have started to see and hear things. You also do look a bit haggard and fat. Who thought being crazy could actually give you powers of prophecy into your own future?
Super Scary then starts getting violent. She tells you to hurt yourself. Just a little nick from the knife, just try it, go on. You ignore her until you are driving at 60 mph and she says drive into a tree. You can hardly see through your tears as you pull over, call your Mum and confess you have not been taking your tablets and you need help.
So people, this is why I am going to get help. I have been back on the meds for a while now and feel relatively stable. Super Crazy and Super Scary are always with me, but they are locked down in my psyche, in my own mental Arkham Asylum in Hannibal Lector masks. I am going today to this clinic to keep them there. Wish me luck!