I’m usually solving some complex puzzle that doesn’t exist. Putting numbers and words together until I’ve cracked the code.
My name is a month. I wasn’t born in August, but my name is August. You were born in August. That must mean you’re special. Or am I special? Maybe we have a special mission. Maybe we should get married. Are you my clone?
2+7=9 right? So I was born in 1995. That’s two nines. What about the one and the five? The 2 and the 7? Maybe 9 8 7 6 5? What adds up to 8 though? I forgot more numbers.
I’ve seen three spiders this week. No, four. What does that mean? Bad things come in fours? No threes. Will I die on the 4th? Were they omens? Four omens warning me of?
I’m exhausted. I exhaust me. It’s nothing. It’s all nothing. It’s nonsense. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop the carousel from turning and churning the delusions inside of me until I’m wearing a beekeeper suit to bed so the spiders can’t get me.
Black hair. Blue eyes. All my serious boyfriends have had black hair and blue eyes so the next one must. Are they demons? Why black hair and blue eyes? Am I attracting ghosts? What’s the message here? Are they robots? Are they all the same person? Is this a trick?
I twirl around and tell myself that I must not turn myself back around because I’m in a new universe and everyone is the same except off by one molecule. And so am I. It’s the new me, right?
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t stand the stupid thoughts that always lead me nowhere, tricking me into thinking I can travel through time and space when really I’ve just been staring at the ceiling for three hours. And I can’t take it when I’m screaming and you’re hiding from the mean words that come out of my mouth and my memory is filled with bright white spots so I don’t even remember what I’ve said to hurt you.
I take my medications that I thought make me normal enough. But I still scream and cry and solve the questions of the universe which is actually nothing at all except me writing in circles.
I’m tired of being this girl, asking the same questions over and over. Tired of the confusion and memory loss, trying to explain my thought disorder, my obsessions and delusions. Tired of telling myself to step hard twice and then soft or the world will implode. I thought I wasn’t sick anymore. But schizoaffective disorder is not curable. I will always be a freak with my hands over my ears screaming at the loud noises and bright lights and strange people because deep down, most of all, I am scared.
By August B.
August B Pfizenmayer is the founder of Survival is a Talent. She is a freelance writer, blogger, and student. A story about her life with a mental illness has been published in the next volume of The i’Mpossible Project. It is available for pre-order and will be in stores November 2017. You can connect with her on LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.