Crazy

Sometimes I wonder about being "crazy'.  Obviously people always ask what "normal" is and I heard a really good answer once from a guy in a hospital, but I don't remember it.  I guess I don't know, but I do know that I feel crazy a lot of the time.  I bet most people do though.

I love the book "Crazy" by Amy Reed, and if you haven't read it I STRONGLY recommend it.  It is my current favorite book, and Amy Reed is definitely my favorite author.

Sometimes I feel like I can be a person.  That I can take care of myself, and maybe even try to imagine a future.  You know, my fun career, the work I would do to help other mentally ill people, especially the ones who are first diagnosed.  How I would wait until I was in a good place for it then adopt a British embryo, hopefully to have a little girl who I would then name Emma Rose Brooks.  Of course Melinda and I would make her an adorable Gryffindor themed nursery and be a happy single mom with my group of friends around to make sure I don't fuck her up.  Although I can't really see myself being old.

Most of the time though even thinking about this coming Christmas is hard, it just seems so long and painful.  When I was younger my friends would joke about "Kumari time", which was the way time passes for me.  See five minutes in kind of long, and a week feels like an age, a year an eternity.

Most of the time I don't feel like I can be a person.  I cry because I can't even make myself eat.  I feel so helpless and pathetic, being so utterly unable to care for myself.  I sit in a small dark place and cry, clawing at myself with my nails, feeling like I need to rip my body apart.  I feel like my head is going to explode from all of the wrongness of me being alive.  My head pounds, and my heart hurts, as I imagine ripping my head open, my face apart, so my broken brain can spill out.

I feel so crazy.

I don't think that I should be allowed hopes or dreams, I feel so wrong.  I'm broken, and I was wrong to break.  I should have been more resilient, or less selfish.  I don't deserve to be taken care of, or to be okay.  I'm a drain on my friends, and really what is the point of someone who wants to die so much?  Why keep my alive, at such a personal cost? It's not worth it, and won't pay off.

I know I have a choice, and I chose not to.  I'm pretty sure that blade that I cut through an artery with was my saying that I choose not to live, and not to try.  I don't think I can get better, and frankly I don't see the point.  I'm nothing special, all of the things I could contribute can be contributed by 20 people, all better equipped and more skilled.

I think the craziness is deep in my brain and cannot be gotten to with therapy.  I'm pretty sure it will take a sledgehammer.  Here see, I'll lay down, and you smash my skull.  It will be fun. I think that I have to cut myself deep enough until I run out of blood.  Because maybe then the crazy will run out.

I cannot convince people that this is a lost cause.

Kill me.