Career Day

No child wakes up and resolves to be crazy, just as no woman determines that it is best to be alone. I am both. As a girl, I entertained dreams of becoming a singer. Needless to say, I have found myself in a substantially different field. I am, as Oscar Wilde so eloquently put it, 'A Woman Of No Consequence'. As a matter of fact, I do believe that scientists are the only individuals capable of finding fascination with me; due solely to the teeming labyrinth of abbreviations and chemical imbalances that comprise my brain. This is in no way a comforting thought. I had dreamed of and worked for a life in which I could share my gifts on an international scale and would be valued for them. I find myself irrefutably stuck in an existence of debilitating manic insanity, and when I leave it, I will leave no other mark than the bleeding claw-marks indicative of one last 'rage against the dying of the light' from the rational portion of my brain. I can be so much more than this--or so I tell myself. I could be LOVED. I could be WORTHY. I could be VALUED. Or, as is always the case, I could go crazy. The past several weeks have been a veritable blur of insanity. The small part of me that actually remains me during these episodes has observed a near-suicide attempt; a most curious mania; the inevitable switch into catatonic, abysmal despondency; the compulsory resolve for change; the ensuing miserable failures; obsession to a life-threatening degree; panic; something so much stronger than panic that humanity has not developed a word for it yet; blinding rage; debilitating apathy; and ultimately, a return to the customary semi-placid holding pattern. This life, if one can call it that, is exhausting. This is not at all the way I had imagined it.

i am the disease

I am the disease. Properly explaining a descent into madness isn't easy. Outlining--dates, causes and effects--is simple. 'July 24th, 2012: Subject miscarries Child. Loses last shred of soul.' Straightforward facts. Pinpointing exactly which rogue group of cells in my brain is ravaging my psyche at any given moment or defining the specific demon-toxin acidicly burning away the rare semi-healthy grey matter anomalies still clinging stoic to the walls of my skull or even knowing with certainty which action, word, or thought I carelessly and innocently executed as a child to cause such a decay of normalcy and sanity is almost impossible. I suppose there are those individuals who can look into my basket case and explain to me what All-Knowing Science and good sir Freud have to say on the subject, but unless I, like Sybil, have thirty-odd other consciousnesses who each know a bit more than I do, I cannot honestly say that there is, or ever will be, a rational explanation for what has happened to me. I am the sea. I am calm, for a moment, but the slightest change of wind, the most infinitesimal, facetious variance in the pull of the moon, the otherwise-negligible, molecular shiftings of the core of the earth will send me into storm. I am the fury of nature, the cursed Act of God, the uncontrollable force of rage that lays kingdoms and contintents to waste. I am power beyond reason. I am madness. I am the disease.