As previously mentioned, for almost a year I’ve been in an identity crisis that has only recently resolved itself. I’ve crawled through the dirt and mud, bloody fingernails and all, to reconnect with the hyperactive overgrown obese child that I am. And, honey, it has felt so goooooooooood.
Losing yourself or even feeling like you’ve lost yourself is, to underplay it, a fucking bummer. Even though people have recognised exactly zero change, I actually feel like I’m in my own skin, fleshed out by the pound and it has made me ecstatic. While I recognise that I may not be fully complete – there be adulting to do, my dear – I am actually 100% where I need to be.
And that’s why I have decided to stop doing AAAAAH! Insecurities after two blogs.
No, I’m totally just kidding. Hey reader, if you’re like me and your brain is a shambolic mess of a roommate who likes to piss on your cutlery, steal all your food (to not even eat it but throw it at the walls like an overenthusiastic but “over it” art student…Lisa,) and then be like “Oh my god, we are totally best mates forever,” whilst stabbing you in the ribs – then you know that the mind has a cunting default button for happiness. And it’s called death.
As someone who suffers from OCD, intrusive thoughts have become a staple of my cranial diet. What used to drag me down, in the most batshit and insane ways, are flies circling perceived my cerebral corpse that’s just rotting…
Flies that I have learnt to swat away with this gigantic pile of good stuff that I’ve crafted into an electronic like tool of some sorts that buzzes when it does stuff.
This pile of good stuff is sacred. It’s the Holy Grail, the Pirate Ship in The Goonies, and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull…
The Lost Ark? Better?
It’s the Deathly Hallows: A triade (or more) of things to use against the thoughts. It is every nerdy amulet that you can think of. Those days where you are just marose and in bed, unable to think past the destitute fanatasies your mind has concocted, this pile of good things is a saviour. Now, if you are like me and also suffer from anxiety and depression (alongside OCD and clycothemia, it’s a real gang bang of mental illness up in here,) the defence you have may be overwhelmed. But having special memories, future events, and – holy shit – the most spectacular people you’ve ever met, locked in your nogs, then there is something to keep on tick, tick, ticking.
Back to the point at hand, there will be days when all you have is squishy, gooey feelings. An explosion of rainbows and unicorn orgasms floating through you in waves of love and joy.
If you’ve watched a lot of films, like I have, and a lot of television series that toy with your emotions, then you’ll know what’s coming next.
DOOM! DEATH! DESTRUCTION! HORROR BLOODY HORROR THE END IS NIGH! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! SAVE YOURSELVES! SHE IS GONNA CROAK!
Ladies and gentleman, the exact thing going through my brain right now. If my conscious innards were a mental factory, like in Inside Out, then Fear is the purple skinned menace from hell that controls it. A character so worried about dying that it looks for it around every corner (another note of side but this usually plays alongside depression which is like “hey, death doesn’t seem so bad!” It’s so much fun, you guys.)
So in this case, following on from, like, seven good days in a row, my mental illness is having a breakdown.
SEVEN?!?!?! Seven wholesome days where I have felt most like myself in half a decade and I cannot compute. Clearly, this wasn’t written in the manual which must mean they are giving me that curtain call (ooo sexy mixed metaphors ooo). Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today, that slight elevation in your pulse…IT’S DEATH, IT’S DEATH!
It is a relapse of some sorts and that sucks. It’s been months since I’ve been up fretting about falling asleep at night in case I won’t wake up again. Mainly because I’ve invented healthier rituals to coax me off to sleep such as herbal remedies from Pukka’s luscious Night Time tea (sponsor me) and actually switching electronics off to lul myself into the deepest of snoozes.
Maybe it is the melancholy change in weather during June that has switched sunshiney times into Wuthering Heights times (which I usually love because I get to wear bitchin, witchin, outfits and pretend I’m in The Craft.) Maybe there is a lot going on I don’t know, kept away fro me in that there Davy Jones’ Locker.
Whatever it is, I am currently naked, in bed, and torn like Natalie Imbruglia with the overwhelming sensation that if I close my eyes tonight, I’ll never wake up again.
Oh. God. Wouldn’t it be somewhat poetic if this was the last post I did and then I died? Even more so now I wrote that. And this. And…
Oh god, I’m exhausted!.