Artist: O. Louis Guglielmi; Completion Date: 1938
Unstable again. Free falling. Falling. Failing. The familiar, horrid feeling of losing control. The gentle creep of ideas, obsessions, anger, binging into my mind. Demons almost lost, found my address again. And again. And again.
Can’t function. Can’t spell. Can’t type. Can’t read. Can’t remember. Can’t forget. No cocoon of medications, weekly therapy to help send the demons back to those cob-webbed corners where they should stay. Yet, called upon to help others whose dance with mental illness goes from waltz to mosh pit.
Desperate pleas to help write will as will to live is gone. Control freak becoming more controlling. No point in addressing issue as person would never acknowledge any physical weakness, any mental health problems. Dementia (and I am too familiar with this to not recognize) descent beginning. Anger, denial and blame framing another’s perspective on life, relationships, caring and support.
Me as support? Why does this happen? People come to me as if I am an oracle, a wizard, a miracle worker, a “fixer,” moral, faithful, loyal. I guess I hide my mental illness well. Sometimes people figure it out. Sometimes I take a step back so they can process who I am. The difference between sanity and insanity. I am not who the person sees. I am what they perceive. Acknowledging either means making self-distant examinations. For example, perceiving the future with out the filters of pessimism or romanticism.
I can change my physical geography, but not the geography of my mind.