“I just don’t understand how you can smile with all those tears in your eyes and tell me everything is wonderful now.” – Everclear – Wonderful
I feel as if I have been robbed of something. Most of the time, I’m blank with these vague floating emotions. Sometimes, I can tap into them, but it is more akin to breaking open the Pandora’s box. These emotions suddenly intensify and flood over me, consuming me like a tsunami. A thief crept in the window to my mind and stole my translator for emotion to cognition.
I am inclined to speculate as to whether this is just a side effect of losing those internal monologues / dialogues. On occasion, I catch myself attempting to recreate them, especially in the moments of severe, agonizing distress. However, there seems to have been some kind of role reversal. Instead of my dominant persona being confused by multiple personas in my head, those lesser personas being the ones who generated the intrusive thoughts and discord in the chambers of my mind, there remains one persona. This persona is new. She’s the therapist. What do people call it? Maybe the voice of reason?
Blank slate. I am seemingly an empty canvas. I never cared much for empty things, because they require filling. There are always these second thoughts and doubts; Am I doing it right? What if I mess up? It highlights the cracks. I float around in my life without immediate purpose, without the constant noise that colored my life.
One would think the riddance of such garbage background noise and a wide spectrum of ever fluctuating emotions would be a positive improvement. There remains this empty container where thoughts and emotion would overflow out of, the tap of which being always open. The source has dried up, and it seems an IOU is tightly fastened to the bottom without a named perpetrator.
One would suspect that another would be at peace without such distressful experiences such as psychosis. Instead, I find that I cannot seem to associate myself with this state. I don’t belong here. This doesn’t feel right. Something is wrong. It’s all wrong.
One would think that all of this freedom would be so wonderful.
Everything is not wonderful now. The tears of mourning still come to my eyes as if I were somehow missing a piece. Colors seem to be dimmer and the whole world feels washed out. It is distressing in itself. The absence of myself. The crazy, emotional, outrageous, always interesting, talkative woman has become muted, grasping at straws for conversation and content.
Is this what it feels like to be normal?
Sunny With a Chance Of Armageddon 