Personal Narrative: Shadow Of A Woman

Shadow of a Woman

How does one begin the story of their journey into insanity when right in the middle?

Starting at the beginning seems somehow senseless, since if we knew where the beginning of being insane was, it would be only logical, that we would stop the whole thing before it grabbed hold. Starting in the present is not possible, the absence of anything even remotely comfortable or normal blurs your mind. Therefore, the present may not ever be this moment in time; it could actually be the end.

As I sit and begin this story, I wonder, What is reality? What does it mean to be sane? Normal? Is it the repetitive, monotonous, daily grind that we base our lives and expectations off? Keeping the house clean, keeping a job, doing laundry, day

I have cooked 10,950 dinners, made 13,140 lunches, washed 5,394 loads of laundry, all over the past thirty years. I have scrubbed, vacuumed, and washed the floor 6,394 times; I have cleaned the toilet 9,340 times. I have used duct tape to fix and seal 3,220 items. I tried using it on my psyches, but the nurses had to remove it as it was chafing.

I like numbers, they make sense to me. For example, I remember what I made for the 10,951st dinner: quite lovely salmon, fresh veg, salad, and great shortcake for dessert. Too bad he didn’t get a chance to eat it. More numbers, it was 5:38 p.m. when I called 9-1-1.

The actual fact is that I felt no remorse then, and I still don’t. My senses have been dulled by thousands of meaningless tasks, by the detergent, the mind-numbing senseless life of being an adult, of being normal. I guess that brings us back to the original question, When do you know if you are sane or not?

My social worker asked me, “What is going on in your mind? What are you thinking?” I didn’t answer, of course. I did think about it. The answer is very simple: Everything! Imagine watching a movie so twisted and real, there are no rules; things that should be terrifying are funny, things that are funny or sweet are terrifying. Maybe a Quentin Tarantino

There are no rules. I could walk into the doctor’s office with my pants on my head, sucking my thumb, and all he would do was make a note and ask me about voices in my head. He is very curious about these voices; maybe he hears voices. Undoubtedly, he would mumble something about coping tools and up my meds. Actually, I might just give that a try.

Time is obliterated when you are diagnosed, as if knowing it’s Monday at 10:30 a.m. will send you into a spiral of rage; actually, Mondays were always a bit of a challenge. The only time I observe is med time.

I deserve the quiet those magical little tablets bring; the sting of the syringe makes me smile. I have been through a hell of a time; this has not been easy for me, day after day defending my own insanity.

I have put up with a lot of crap to get here, watching my mind crack and fracture, split and open up, slowly—so slowly. Every washed pot, every load of laundry, every damn package of hamburger, was a nail hammering into what was once my most prized possession. So, I put that nail right through his most prized possession.

Criminally insane means no more dishes, no more dirty underwear, besides mine, and no more inane conversation about right and wrong. I am right where I need to be, and he was dead