A Good Day

 The date is September 17th. A Tuesday. 

I've started a mental health support group. It is just 3 or 4 of us sitting around chatting, but it's a start. Tonight, I felt more boredom than anything. I live in a small city with very few resources. Attending NA for many years gave me the motivation to start a group of my own. It's too early to tell how successful it will be. 

Tonight, I'm in bed with Michel Foucault's History of Madness. Is madness a medical condition, a personal failing, a moral choice, or an inescapable feature of the human experience. I suppose I am someone who people would generally consider mad. I am dangerously depressed and regularly suicidal, extremely anxious and panicky to the point of dysfunction, but most of all because I experience things that are not real. I hallucinate, imagine, fabricate, or generate sensory information that cannot be verified by another human observer. If this is not madness, then I stumped for qualifying factors. 

I'm afraid. I'm irrationally afraid of my own mind and body. I live in heightened anticipation of panic, of illusions, and the physical pains that accompany them. My head throbs and I become light headed. My stomach contracts so tightly my organs are temporarily displaced. 

I live in my own mental prison with little significant connection to the outside. I am disturbed deeply by my inability to distinguish reality the way others do. When you hear a voice, you don't question if it has a source. You may question who the source is or where the source is but not if it exists. When you're alone at home, you don't catch a glimpse of a stranger standing in your peripheral vision. You don't have to wonder if you're actually alone or not. 

I am mad, and therefore separated from society on several levels. In my current state, I cannot contribute to society to the extent that most can. Despite my intellect and education, my mind is similar to a short-circuiting robot. I'm capable of great things, but when, where, and for how long are undetermined factors. I am going to apply for disability, and it is not a frivolous decision. What I want is security and peace of mind. I want to know that someone in this world cares enough for poor soul like mine. Unfortunately, not enough people do. If I spend a day writhing with madness and default on my bills you can shrug your shoulders and carry on. Just one of millions of terrible stories in our cold world. Right now, I'm in search of warmth and comfort from the storm that follows me everywhere I go. 

I will end tonight's post here. My medicine is pulling me under the veil of consciousness as I write. Tomorrow is a new day.