People think that COVID is over. Nothing is ever really over (except the passenger pigeon). People are still getting the plague in the Western United States from wrestling armadillos.
I’m sure that’s perfectly normal in Texas.
So, as I struggle through my days (and minutes, and hours) bursting into random tears and coming thissssssss close to completely falling apart, I still get to worry about things like COVID and the CDC’s new guidelines that say, basically, “Don’t worry about the thing that we told you to worry about, which hasn’t actually changed that much or become less deadly to the elderly and immunocompromised, but you know what? Fuck ‘em. Nobody cared before, nobody did anything we said. So, fuck ‘em. Fuck all y’all.”
I still back away from people in public who invade my six-foot bubble of purity (I will do that for the rest of my life—mostly because I don’t like people). I still carry hand sanitizer in my truck. I still have masks crammed into various nooks and crannies, for when either I’m sick or I don’t like the look of that guy over there coughing without covering his mouth.
He might have COVID. He might have Captain Tripps. He might have allergies. I don’t care. I’m still going to wear a mask.
All of this is to say that I’m about to have a nervous breakdown.
Back in the old days, people had “nervous breakdowns” which were cured by “rest” in something called a “sanitarium” (which is like a terrarium for people).
I always envisioned this as someplace where women (usually women have nervous breakdowns, and God knows we deserve them) lounge around in chiffon robes and fuzzy mules, drinking martinis. Less The Snake Pit and more the Canyon Ranch.
If I’m going to fall apart, I want to do it glamorously. I want to come back from my little “vacation” coked to the gills on Haldol, chainsmoking Virginia Slims.
Unfortunately, it’s more likely that I’m going to shave my head like Britney Spears.
This is an urge I feel whenever I’m at my most stressed out. This is the universally recognized SOS — if you won’t believe my words, maybe you’ll believe the pile of hair I’m carrying around in a plastic shopping bag.
Maybe now you’ll realize that I’m overworked. Maybe now you’ll realize that I can only handle so much without help. Maybe now you’ll let me eat my desk lunch of cold baked beans in peace.
I woke up four times last night. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time in probably 10 years. Everything hurts. I don’t see how therapy is going to help that.
Quaaludes, on the other hand, are how everyone functioned in the ’70s.
My kingdom for a Quaalude.
I fully believe that a lot of what we call “mental illness” is the result of just being tired. Tired of having too much asked of us. Tired of being bombarded with stimuli 24/7 that we don’t feel capable of ignoring. Tired of being asked to care about everything, all the time. Tired of being made to feel like a horrible person if we don’t.
I should go back to bed. But first I’m going to stress eat 15 Oreos and hide the scissors.
I, too, will forever keep my 6 foot bubble whenever possible. I wish I could just walk around with a hula hoop around my waist.
I absolutely agree that much of what we call mental illness is probably due to fatigue. Physical, emotional, mental fatigue. If not that quaalude, maybe some ativan? or lots and lots and lots of chamomile. Honestly, praying that you get some sleep!