I’m legit crazy. I’ve taken Prozac for the past two and half years to combat my ailment. I have another drug I take to keep my mood level because I’m not bipolar but still have self-destructive mania if I can’t keep it together. My hope is to find regular employment and be self-sufficient. This feels so impossible I’ve started self-identifying as disabled on my job applications. It only seems fair to warn them about my crazy. 

The depression I’m facing right now is monumental. This is the lowest I’ve felt since waking up. I saw this coming, a confluence of bad circumstances. I know myself well. And then I get hit with someone I didn’t see coming. A spark of hope in the desolate wasteland. The fairy tale hero I yearn for.  Someone that will make my credits roll, so to speak.  The glint catching my eye is almost always tin foil but I’d rather know than wonder.  A chance to catch my breath and remember what it feels like to be someone I used to be.

That moment of relaxation can undo months of hard work.  Preparing for the worst and hoping for the best means I have to assume I’m worthless.  Years of trying to fit in just enough to hold a job.  Everyone’s relieved when I’m gone, especially me.  Trying to interact with humanity is a constant challenge.  I’m in the habit of asking if “that makes sense” just to see if things track.  I’m not utterly alone.  There are people speaking my language.  We just don’t talk that much.

Staying quiet mitigates so much stress it makes me invisible.  While hiding in plain sight.  People will remember there was a girl with blue hair.  Or maybe nice legs.  Sometimes a great smile.  Some feature I’m hiding behind because none of those things are me.  I do yoga.  I write down feelings.  I love to dance.  These aren’t things you can’t see.  Most of what makes me up are things you can’t observe sitting at a bar.  To see me and assume you know anything is my cage to prowl in unnoticed.