Crazy: mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way.
Am I crazy, I don’t feel like I meet the definition. I feel like I was on that path at some point in my life, but it’s like I made a detour through trees and thorns and pretty much made my own alternate route. What am I then? I don’t know, maybe just call me… Me. That’s probably as bad as it gets. I don’t know what I am.
If there is one thing that I know, it’s stress. I am a person who gets stressed out very easily. Not over things that should be stressful, no. I tend to get more stressed out about things that are completely meaningless. It’s like a chronic condition I have. While some people may get stressed out about debt, or losing a job, finals, etc., I get stressed out about things that others find normal. In fact, I often get more stressed out because I feel like people don’t understand my stress to the point where they think of it as random child-like fits. My stress isn’t a “fit”, and it also is not random. My stress always builds from SOMETHING. Okay, multiple things.
To me, stress is like the snowball effect. You start of with little to nothing, then after you keep adding to it, eventually you just have this gigantic mass of stress rolling downhill and engulfing EVERYTHING in it’s path. Just like that. Except there’s always snow, and I’m always making a snowball. An average scenario may look like this:
I wake up in my dorm room, and hop out of my freakishly elevated bed, and hobble over to find the light switch that is always hiding in the dark. Do I want to turn on the light? No. It blinds the hell out of me. But I do it anyway because I’ve already paid the tuition. On my way over, there’s an asshole chair who seems to maneuver it’s way out from under my desk and plot itself somewhere in my decided path to the light switch. So I trip on it and fall into some more shit, knocking everything over in the process. Now, still tired, I have to pick up everything that has fallen on the floor, too.
Next up: Shower. I get into the shower, armed and ready. I grab the Dove shampoo bottle, which feels pretty empty but I was sure it had something in, I flipped the cap open with my thumb, and turned the bottle over. It sounded just as you’d imagine an empty bottle of shampoo might sound. Not like the explosive farting noise it’d make if there were something in it, but the kind of fart I’d suspect a sexually active gay man’s fart might sound. Like the deep whistle of the wind. Fuck it, right? I can just use my body wash instead this one time! So I do, and everything is great. I get out of the shower, get dressed, and head off to class. 30 minutes into class I realized I forgot my keys. That would be okay, if I didn’t have a roommate who always locked the door behind him. Usually I wouldn’t complain, except for in this particular case when it especially fucks up my day. Still not his fault, obviously, just understand my thought process. So I call my girlfriend, to maybe just buy some time until he get’s back into the room. Straight to voice mail. Oh yeah that’s right, her phone is a shitty iPhone that has so many fucking problems! I told her and told her to get a fucking Android like me, but no!!! She insisted that she needed the iPhone, because it was “easier to use”. IT’S NOT FUCKING EASIER IF IT’S FUCKING BROKEN DAMMIT!!!!!!!!!!
I grab my pistol, and eat a couple of bullets.
Okay, no, not really. But at that point that’s what I’d feel like.
So how do you escape? How do you control your stress? Well I don’t. No, I don’t know how to contain it for myself, and if anybody DOES please share with me your secret. What I do, instead, is distract myself. I create a mask for myself to hide behind to show the rest of the world that I’m just fine. That I’m normal, like all of you guys. That I’m…normal. The mask is comedy. Comedy is the best medicine. You can put enough of it anywhere, and practically make anything better. Knock, Knock? It’s cancer, now laugh at everything that I have to say because it can only make you feel better. Cancer is not a laughing matter, and I apologize for saying it bluntly like that. But people with terminal illnesses like that, find themselves watching comedy shows and sitcoms on television. It makes them forget that they are dying. That they are in pain.
As people pass me by on the sidewalk, and shoot me a smile or a wave, I simply use my Texas Courtesy, and give it right back. But if they got to know me. The real me. Not the face on the mask I wear. They’d realize that I needed a lot more than a wave and a smile to make me return one. A genuine one anyway. It’s all forced nowadays. I literally feel numb to emotion. I can’t feel anything but stress. It has engulfed me. It has consumed my mind, and thoughts. I can’t escape. I’m fucking suffocating now, someone please throw me a rope! Somebody get me away from myself! Someone rescue me! I need help! I need help. I need… help.