“I’m really worried about you”
Those words seem so hazy; silly almost.
Worried about me? No one ever has to worry about me. I’ve got it together. I’ve got my emotions under control. I’ve been taking life by the imaginary genitals for like, ever, right? I’ve got this.
Mental health collapse is a funny thing, you know? For several consecutive months life seems good, almost fun and worthwhile and nothing hurts. Bad days come and go as normal, but all is mediocre and I am numb.
And then it happens.
There’s not always rhyme or reason, not always a tragedy, rarely sense to be made.
Sometimes it comes swiftly; sometimes slowly, like a creep.
I don’t know what’s worse. If there’s a reason for my mental collapse, at the very least I have an answer. Usually the answer isn’t of much help.
If there’s no apparent reason, I’m left completely without answer. Maybe that’s okay. Some things in life are better off unknown?
It seems like a vicious cycle.
Scratch that. It is a vicious cycle. Medication, take, dosage change, manic, repeat. Every time I’m cured, every time I’m disappointed, every time a little bit more of me dies inside.
I thought about admitting myself to the hospital this time. I thought it would help.
I didn’t go.
I am better, right? I’ll get better.