How Much Lower Can One Sink?

You know, I used to be one of those people (read Kenyans) who would marvel at all the seemingly endless mental illnesses that Americans seemed to suffer from. The concept of "mental illness" was as foreign as frappucinos when I was growing up. When you mention the name "mathare", a string of negative connotations and images come flooding to mind. I remember having this study partner when I was a freshman in college. Her parents were divorced, she had been diagnosed with both depression and borderline personality disorder and had been on antidepressants for most of her life. On a good day, she was a fun, smart friend to hang with. When her "craziness" took over, however, it was like staring at an alien. Her constant suicidal tendencies used to scare the shit out of me and her prolonged use of medications had finally started to wear her out. She was an honor student, but by the end of sophomore year, she had dropped out of school and moved in with some random guy she didn't know and her life pretty much went downhill from there. I always thought she was weird and interesting. So fascinated was I with her that I minored in Psychology so I could explore these strange illnesses that I never even knew existed. Little did I know that this would be my chance to start understanding my life.

Flashforward to 2007. I had been sitting at a coffeeshop staring at the same page of my book for hours when a thought entered my head, "you're fucked up". That thought was so clear, I actually thought someone had sneaked in behind me and whispered it in my ear. I shook myself up from the daze and realized that I had no idea what I'd been doing for the past 4 hours of my day. This didn't surprise me one bit. I am used to having blackouts where I'll forget entire parts of my day. I can sit in one spot for 5 hours and not even notice it. When I glance around 5 hours later, it'll feel like waking up from a dream and I'll remember nothing. I used to think this was a normal occurence until I mentioned it to my best friend one time and she gave me a strange look that told me there was definitely something wrong with me. Freudians have a name for this.

Lately, I've been thinking about my life, where I've been, where I am, and where the hell it is I'm headed. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Those are the times I try to stay away from my own company. I'll call some friends up and hit the clubs, or lose myself in the art of lovemaking (I really don't know what Steve's thinking still dating me). Some days, however, dragging myself out of bed is an impossible feat. Then there are days when I tell myself that I should use my past as a motivator for becoming a better person and it works for a few months. Those are the times I'll lose myself in volunteer activities, one after the other, until I burn out. Then there are those days when I just need to admit that sure, I've lived a pretty messed up life, but there are others who're more fucked up than I can ever be. Such is the fun of reading books like "Running with Scissors", where rather than sympathize with the character, I laugh out loud and pat myself on the back for managing to escape such a vicious childhood.

So, where was I going with this post? Nowhere, really. Just exploring the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it's time I took my mental health seriously and made that phone call. I have the number saved on my cell, just in case. Yet, it never feels like it's the right time. But really, is there such a thing as "the right time" to come face to face with your demons? My year started off with me drenched in tears. Those tears have turned out to be more prophetic than I could ever have imagined. It's gotten harder and harder to simply "forget", block disturbing images and memories from my mind. It's becoming impossible to feign happiness. More importantly, I'm getting really tired of being enslaved to my past. Yet...