I Felt a Funeral in My Brain

Head in the clouds, head in the sky--that is to say, high, though not chemically so. Agitated, mostly--forgetful, late, twitchy, bitchy, avoidant, searching--I'm losing it finally, I think, after all this time. I forget to eat, and if you knew me from how I was before, that was not something She (Me?) did. I was blue-tongued at my comp oral, for no other particular reason than to maintain my irreverent street cred. They asked their questions, unavoidable, and I skirted around most of what they were asking for. Pointed question, they'd ask, to which I'd respond star, circle, triangle, or, more precisely, not. I'd just not respond.

Eyebrows raised.

A pre-comp meeting today: more pointed questions, more confusion at my lack of coherence. Tread softly, because this girl is clearly not okay.

Take a few days, they say. Take a few days before you start narrowing your topic.

Narrow, yes. Too many things I'm trying to accomplish with this comp--four or five comps, to be precise. What is the central question, they ask--a legitimate one. Can I answer, though, on the spot, without crying? Not exactly. So I do not answer, I blink, I stare, blink once more. My eyeliner, it occurs to me, makes me doe-eyed, vulnerable, scared; all true things, but without, I could hide it better. Whatever IT is.

I've been reading Madness by Marya Hornbacher, author of Wasted, and as I read, I sit in abject horror. Is this what I will become? Bipolar runs in my family, courses through our veins, makes us mad, makes us invincible, but incapacitates. This is where I am now, and I am terrified. I always knew I was atypical, and maybe it's just the confluence of my life crashing down upon me that's finally making me crack, but the degree to which I am maddened by all these goddamn feelings makes me suspect that maybe, just maybe, I have inherited much more than anyone could have ever guessed.

Could not have happened at a more convenient time.