Fizzy Thinkin'

About a year ago I experienced what some would call a “mental breakdown” – or what I’d like to refer to as an “out of body experience.”  Because that’s what it felt like… like I had lost all control.

I’ve come a long way since then, but what I remember most of the experience is the feeling that nothing was “real”.  I quote the word because now I look at it subjectively.  I mean, what is real anyway?

What I can tell you today is that the answer to that question doesn’t really matter.  So long as we’re creative and thoughtful individuals, there cannot be one straight definition for the word.  But, twelve months ago, that question really scared me.

Finding the answer quickly became an obsession.  The only thing that felt worse than not knowing was feeling completely alone in my feelings… and if in fact nothing was “real”, did any of it really matter?

Reality and unreality were no longer black and white.  Doing something just to do it started to become much more difficult and sometimes impossible.  Watching a movie felt like a chore and actual chores felt like hell.

I was falling apart but somehow able to mask it.  I mean – I couldn’t let people know I was going crazy, right?  What would my friends think of me?  How could I explain to them the things I couldn’t even explain to myself?

After spending a good chunk of my time crying, forcing myself to eat the little amount food I was able to stomach and reading online forums to reassure myself that I was not insane (which only made me feel more insane), I made the decision to see a therapist. 

The idea was very new to me.  I’d never spoken to a professional before and I didn’t know anyone who had.

Or, so I thought…

About a couple of weeks into therapy I had a really good conversation with a friend of a friend (who assured me I was not alone as she had gone through therapy in the past).  I’ll never forget what she said: “When someone has a sore throat or a broken leg, they go to the doctor to get it taken care of.  Why shouldn’t it be the same with your brain?”

And, she wasn’t the only one rolling out the advice.

It took a couple of tries to find the right professional to speak with, but once I found a good fit, I was able to learn a lot about myself.  I starting writing again, working out, and doing all of those things ya do just to do them but this time with purpose.

It didn’t matter what aspects of my life were “real” as long as they were real to me.  My mentality was my reality. 

I learned that some of my closest friends were dealing with similar issues and that talking to people about my “weird” thoughts was actually not weird at all.  I learned that life can be funny and sometimes you just have to laugh at it.  Most importantly, I learned that those who truly love you will continue to love you no matter what.

I started seeing things differently, ever-changing, evolving.  I’m still not entirely sure what triggered the whole existential thought process, but I’m glad it happened.  I like who I am, I like what I do, and I hope this article has helped someone.

I walked alone that morning.  I seemed to be doing that a lot lately.   I don’t know if I even noticed at the time, but I had become a total introvert.  Other than the characters in books, I didn’t much care to learn about people.

Maybe I was selfish.  I think I was just depressed.  I guess that’s what they would diagnose me, anyway.  Don't you think?  It seems like everyone has “something” these days.

I remember that walk though.  It seemed to take much longer than usual.  It was half past seven, the same time I always left my house in the morning.  I had to catch the train.  I don’t much enjoy the train, or the people on it.  I am not sure why.

I walked slowly.  My feet echoed behind my thoughts.  One more day.  I tried to remind myself of this.  

I don’t think I believed myself.  It wasn't the first time I reminded myself of of this.  I thought about it a lot, actually.  Though, I do believe that I wanted to believe.

It was cold that day.  Maybe it was the cold that made everything seem real.  Or, the hangover.  I really don’t know.  I just can't think of a better reason for why I felt the way I did.  

I was ready to take the plunge.

No – I didn’t kill myself if that’s what you’re thinking.  By “depressed” I don’t mean suicidal.  At least not in the way people who are serious about committing suicide mean it.  I don’t think I’m supposed to joke about this kind of stuff.   I don’t really know.