#petite mal

I am desperately searching for a clear definition of the word ‘crazy’. Not in a dictionary, but within my own mind. My mind presents me with something, not an image or statement or anything so tangible. Not even a thought, not even an idea. Just some chemicals, perhaps. Neurotransmitters. The currents of my brain flow back towards me, wherever it is that I reside, in there, and they tell me that the definition of the word ‘crazy’ is, in fact, me.
I try to fight against this, but how can I? I don’t even know what I’m fighting against. It isn’t a thought. It isn’t an idea. My sub-conscious fixes me with a tired stare, doesn’t gesture, doesn’t blink. Perhaps her eyebrow raises, an infinitesimal amount, and the waves crash down upon my being once again.
They don’t come with a message, they are not a symbol or a metaphor. They are simply there, and I find my own self saying ‘You. You are crazy.’ Deep breaths. See, there. I’m back in the room. I can still feel the mattress underneath me and the cool breeze from the open door. But something, innately physical and yet somehow completely psychological tugs at my chest. As if a soup ladle has scooped it’s way under my heart and is now gently attempting to remove it. They call this the aura. I know it means the seizure is coming. My thoughts writhe and fizzle. Like some mad scientist has combined fireworks with snakes and set them free inside me. Memories come marching towards me, in a constant stream. Perhaps some are real, I suspect most are not. They did not deign to wear a label or tag. There are no armbands declaring ‘fake!’ and so I build a blockade and send them off in another direction. A few still get through and begin to haunt me.
Each time one emerges I relive it, imagine it, whatever it, try push it away. I feel the soup ladle tug, a little harder. My body freezes. 
Deep breaths, deep breaths. Back in the room.
Once the memory is pushed away it disappears forever. Or at least that’s what I think. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the same one each time. How would I know? I never remember them afterwards.
But it’s so clear, I remember that. So vivid. So much a part of my life. As it flows away from me, I cannot comprehend that this thing is not truly a real experience. For a few seconds I feel as if someone has informed me that I have a different name, and I just have to accept it. I can’t say ‘hang on, wait a minute, I’m sure that was my name!’ because I know I imagine things that aren’t real but seem real and I know they slip away and I know I can’t trust anything my brain tells me anymore.
My mind is muddled and fuzzy and I am being accosted with a million thoughts that I cannot comprehend, and what is worse is that I’m pretty sure some of them are wonderful ideas. But they tease me. They dance in front of me, gyrating their hips and waving a feather across the bridge of my nose. And then slink away. And then others come and these ones aren’t wonderful. I am aware, dimly, that this is a seizure, but the thoughts do not let me stray away from them. They grab at me, at my heart, at my stomach, at my lungs. They shout that they are real and I, under intense duress, can only agree. They hold me hostage and within seconds I get Stockholm Syndrome, they are real, they are real. They tell me they’re real and I need them to be real.
And then they smile at me, smugly. Raise their chin. Deliver a cold, back-handed slap across my face and declare me a fool. We’ve never been real, they say, you fool, you fool, you crazy fool.
They slither away, release me from their chains and I fall, hard, onto the frozen, cement floor. Shockwaves course up my body. I need to be sick. I was holding onto them, so dearly, that the release was worse than their control over me.
Who am I? Was I that person, that they told me I was, or somebody else? Where am I? Deep breaths, deep breaths. Back in the room. In what room? What room is this? It’s a bathroom. I came to be sick, I suppose, but how did I get here? I don’t know, I have no memory of it. I sit on the floor and take a few breaths. Try to think.
But my logic has left me on my own. It’s gone on leave, due to stress. ‘Emotions in charge until further notice’ says the hastily scribbled post-it note stuck to my door. Emotions? I give them a brief try and immediately push them away again. They’ve never worked well under pressure.
Best not to think then. Head in hands. Deep breaths. Logic pokes it’s head round the door. Tells me to get out of this bathroom. Disappears again. Right. Up. Out. Where am I? Where was I? What parts of my brain can I trust?
Back to the mattress. Thoughts writhing. Fizzling. Dancing. Teasing. Tormenting. Crushing. Gaining my trust and abandoning me. Is this my mind, now? Is this where I live? This used to be such a nice neighbourhood.
Now I don’t know anyone. Who can I ask, to borrow sugar? Half of these neighbours would attack me. Who can I trust? Not myself, for the thoughts are me and I am the thoughts. I am the neighbours. I am the neighbourhood. I'm writhing and fizzling. I’m teasing. I’m tormenting. I’m attacking. And I can’t, dammit, I can’t even trust myself. Deep breaths. Deep Breaths. What is the definition of ‘crazy’?

Enjoy, Mal.