Somebody Save Me

Some days, I want someone to save me. Save me from myself and the quagmire of my mind. Years ago, when I descended to the bowels of madness and stayed there for near a year, a doctor finally correctly diagnosed me. He said, "She's lost in her own head."

Those memories haunt me. Lost in my own mind. I shiver at the slightest sign that the madness is creeping in again. It waits. Just outside the door sits the beast breathing heavily down my neck, pressing in so I can feel his presence. Never can I forget the weight of his possession, nor the fragility of the locks holding him at bay. Some days are better than others. Days when he stays quiet behind the door, sleeping perhaps, allowing me to feel secure. Then come the others. The days when he rattles the locks, beats the door, oozes through the cracks. His noxious scent begins suffocating me.

Those days, when the madness is restless, the world changes. Sounds get amplified and cacophonous. Lights shine too brightly, the sunshine hurts my skin and eyes, the colors and flashes of all the movement of life assault my senses. Sometimes it's so strong that I really do start suffocating (hyperventilating anyway). I feel trapped and rabidly try to escape the crashing noise and people crushing in from all sides. When I no longer think anything but the fear and escape and how hard it is to breathe.

But mostly, thanks to modern chemistry, the panic only hovers around me instead of attacking. I spend my days with a body locked in tension, mind cowering from the discomfort of my surroundings and imminent collapse of everything. Nothing is fun when you're on the precipice of panic. This state occurs in varying degrees for different lengths of time, maybe hours, days or months.

Now I'm in the thick of it again. The last few weeks have not been good. The beast is restless. I don't think I'm adjusting well to teaching again. I enjoy it (I used to.) But, performing in front of 3 classes twice a week drains every ounce of social energy I have. So when I'm done I crawl home to my bedroom and shut the door. I stay in for days. When the phone rings I shudder. Going out with friends is completely unappealing. When I do go out, I spend the whole time wanting to go home; waiting until I can escape the complicated confusion.

This intensified withdrawal and social allergy is new, only manifesting in the last year... and when I was mad. My mental disease might be worsening or mutating. But it might be the stress and nothing more. Maybe it's the city, too much stimulation, too many people, too much hassle, too much isolation. I'm nowhere near as depressed as I was then, I don't feel depressed at all. It's the irrational fear that's overpowering. It reminds me of when I was too sick to dress myself in the morning.

There are some people who would be happy to save me. But I can't call them. I don't know why. It's easier to sit in my room with my thoughts then deal. Wasting myself away chasing the next chimera of imagination. Not wanting to go back to the messy demanding world, all the while knowing I'll starve in here on my own. Lost in my own mind.

It's been weeks since another human has touched me affectionately. Maybe I just need a hug, (a real one, getting squished on the subway between people doesn't count). Somebody save me?

**[UPDATE: I wrote this on Saturday. On Sunday 3 of my friends (those who would save me) called wanting to see me, answering my prayers. I'll be OK. I get into these moods and then they go away.]**

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetic exploits of me not having sex in the city.