It's a rather bad place to be sitting, is my brain.
At least at the moment.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not scary crazy. I'm not foaming at the mouth, hide the children and the sharp objects crazy. I don't think I'm Jesus. I don't think the devil is coming for me. I don't talk to things no one else sees. My cats? Okay. Fine. Them, I talk to. But since they haven't answered back anything clearer than whines for treats, the occasional purr and have never suggested I kill the president of Micronesia - I'm ok with talking to them. Hell. Most days, they are the only other living breathing things around me. It's talk to them... or talk to the walls. And at least I can get the occasional cuddle from a cat when my voice pitches just right. And fur sops up tears pretty well.
Bipolar, manic depressive, socially awkward, possible Asperger's/mildly autistic - all neat little terms that have showed up on my medical forms, school reports, and friends/family's minds for years now.
I'm better. Really. Back when I was 17, the world was a lot scarier and the future pretty bleak.
Oh, who am I kidding? 17? Try 13. 11. Say it plain - the first time I tried to purposefully remove myself from the planet? I was 6, maybe 7. I spent the majority of my time on the planet - from earliest memories until early adulthood desperately wanting off the ride.
And I've been reliably informed, by many a mental healthcare professional, that it really isn't normal to beg to die, breath coming in gasping sobs, hoping with every fiber of your tiny little soul... at 7.
I don't cut myself anymore.
I haven't hid in my parent's basement for months in years now.
I don't burst into hysterical tears and run sobbing from the room when confronted by more than 3 strangers at a time.
I'm 31. I'm married to a wonderful man who is trying to manage being married to a crazy woman. On the surface? I'm much better. Really. I function. I have adapted. I'm better. At least... better than I was. That has to count for something, right?
But at the moment?
My brain is a scary place to be. Again.
Meds don't work. Thanks to a twist of genetics, family history, personal thick headedness, call it what you will... they aren't an option. Lots of reasons, and I'll try to honestly present my case to the jury. But for now, for this first statement to the court - let's simply leave it to, Not An Option.
So. What does a crazy person do when she won't avail herself to the technicolor pharmacology presented in all their appealing glory from every commercial, magazine ad, and oh so earnestly forwarded family email?
Screaming, crying, sobbing aren't good options. They just give me bigger migraines. Removing myself from the thronging horde? Not really my go-to plan these days. Like I said.. I'm AM better.
Some people do yoga. Some paint. I pass out if I bend too vigorously, and came to the understand as a child that, unless handed a ruler and a compass I couldn't be entrusted to even manage a stick figure.
But words... words now. Words have been my friends, my confidantes, my lovers. Between a touch of autistic synesthesia giving words physical shape/color/taste in my head and a natural inborn love of them - they have always been there for me. I've written since I could grab a pencil in chubby baby hands. Before I knew what the word should look like ON the page - I knew I had to find a way to pin my thoughts, butterfly like to a page before they ran away. Words have always been the frame of my life.
Maybe... maybe it's time to use them. Use the one thing I know, REALLY know, to dig my way out of this bleak hell.
Because... I can't do this anymore.
What's the worst that can happen? As thing stand now, I'm on a very thin rope bridge that's beginning to fray at both ends. When you are 99.9% doomed to fail, when the rope is already letting go and there is no hero in sight to save you, what have you got left to lose in trying?
So. I'm taking a shot. Maybe I can dig my way out with the one thing I know.