Super special moment this morning.
So I come into work...Monday morning...I have only finished about a quarter of my venti coffee...naturally, I am grumpy. We are all grumpy. It is the first day of the work week, and I am properly dressed for such - my wig is squeezing my head, my five-inch heels are squeezing my feet, my waist trainer is squeezing my internal organs. I feel, basically, like the life is being squeezed out of me.
Enter, coworker. I am in my cubicle, answering emails, minding my own damn business, when he peeks his head around the corner and says, "So, I heard you took a special trip on Thursday!" He's smiling.
I swivel in my chair. Stare at him. At first, I am confused...did he REALLY just say that? Then, I am enraged. DID HE REALLY...just say that? Then I am calm. Of course he said that.
For your information, guy-I-only-marginally-know, YES, I took a fucking "special trip" on Thursday. The grin on your face only further confirms your tone - condescending, teasing, joking. My friend, this is not something to joke about. Allow me to beat you over the head with the baseball bat of my crazy.
Yes, my friend - on Thursday, April 21, at 2:30 pm, I had to drive myself to the crisis center (which is code for "pre-psych ward") because I was experiencing an absolutely terrifying episode of dissociation, psychosis, and amnesia. I calmly checked myself in, calmly spoke to each mental health professional, calmly explained that I was having an out-of-body experience, calmly waited for SEVEN HOURS to be admitted into the psychiatric hospital.
(I admit, that when no one was in the room, between bouts of being calm, I wept bitterly, because life is unfair and most people don't have to deal with this shit.)
Then I calmly drove myself to the psychiatric hospital, calmly did my paperwork, calmly did my admissions interviews, only to be told by the admitting Doctor that they COULD NOT HELP ME. That I needed to see a neurologist. That psych meds could not fix what I was experiencing. And still, I was calm. I did not scream. I did not go crazy. I just drove myself home. Brushed it off as a wasted day. Pretended it didn't happen. None of it felt real anyway.
So I calmly went through my weekend. I calmly wrapped myself in the cocoon of solitude. I calmly binged on Netflix, calmly ate delivered Chinese food, calmly did not leave the house. Then I calmly coaxed myself outside, calmly interacted with friends, calmly informed everyone that I wasn't dead and it was okay, even though it wasn't okay. Even though it is still not okay.
This morning, I calmly put on my work clothes, my wig, my makeup, my perfume. I calmly prepared myself to interact with people all day. Calmly prepared myself to explain my absences last week to everyone. Calmly put my hands on the bathroom counter and breathed, telling myself, "This is real. You are not dreaming. Do not do anything stupid."
Now I show up at work fifteen minutes early, after CALMLY handling this exhausting battle, with few moments of panic, few moments of visible insanity, for NINE YEARS, and you want to ask me about my "trip"? Like I went on the Magic Fucking School Bus to Mars?
You are, without a doubt, the most insensitive motherfucker around in this moment.
But I just took another sip of my coffee and said, "Yup. I sure did."
