Song of the Day: Sleeping Sickness by City and Colour
It recently occurred to me that as of last Tuesday I’ve been alive for two decades. And for those twenty years I lived as an enigma, a borderline sociopath.
But my memory escapes me. Madness can do that to a person.
I only remember the documented parts of my life, the times when I kept a journal. Everything else is a tossup between a hallucination and an actual occurrence. To this day, unless there’s some kind of evidence of it, I’m not quite sure what has happened.
I can go as far back as my junior year of high school. I don’t remember doing much except studying. I was going through a mixed episode. I resumed my self-destructive behaviors and was even sent to the hospital. I hated everyone and everything, especially myself. But at the same time I loved my life. I knew I could do anything and everything. That lasted throughout the summer. My senior year is a blur. I don’t remember much save the elation of finally being able to graduate.
My mental health really took a plunge after I turned eighteen. During my first semester of college I was sociable, hyperproductive, and dangerously impulsive. I put my past behind me. A few months later I began carving patterns in my arms once again. I stopped eating. I abused my medication. I was on the verge of death but I hung on. I spent that summer cooped up in a single room, refusing to answer my phone and silently begging for everyone to leave me alone. I saw a psychiatrist but was so angry with her that I threw a chair and stormed out. I never came back.
When I returned to school that fall, all was well. In fact, everything was spectacular. I got a job, I joined ROTC, I took twenty-one units, I learned Russian, I applied for internships, I applied for more jobs, I bought designer clothing, I bought a new tablet, I contacted old friends, I made new friends, I did well in all my classes, and I was completely fine. No, I wasn’t manic. I was happy. Why shouldn’t I have been? I accomplished so much.
What I didn’t know was that I was feeding my own psychosis. It all came crashing down on 15 February 2013. I remember that date specifically because I still have my flight ticket. Flight VX 965. It was around four o’clock in the morning when I decided to go to the airport. I arrived somehow at six. They wouldn’t let me on the plane because I didn’t have a ticket. I made such a scene that TSA held me until they knew I was mentally stable enough. When I was free I bought four tickets, just in case I lost one. By then I hadn’t eaten for about three weeks so I was on the verge of collapsing. It’s a miracle how I remember it.
Suddenly I was shoved into a partial hospitalization program for those with severe eating disorders. I was malnourished, emaciated, and downright depressed. My moods began to cycle out of control. I threw violent rages that ended in the destruction of my room or a part of the house. I ran away from the hospital and was chased down by the police. I was forced into the ICU of the psychiatric hospital twice in two months for being a danger to others and myself.
Oh how easy it was to fool everyone into thinking I was better. I just plastered on that smile and tell them some kind of twisted lie I thought about that morning, and I was free to go the next day.
I decided against going back to the hospital. Well, I was actually kicked out of my partial hospitalization programs for being noncompliant. It didn’t matter because I was fine. I am fine.
But I’m not. I’m spiraling into psychosis once again. It’s only a matter of time until poor judgement and false dexterity kicks in.