A Plague in My House

I had the best of intentions. I took my meds and was in bed by 7:30.

First I learned today that Turbo, our eldest cat at 13, has diabetes in addition to her inflammatory bowel disease. Little did I know that another of the small females in my house was about to get sick.

I gave Violet a bowl in case, say, she couldn't make it to the toilet. "But I'm all done throwing up," she protested. Sure you are kid, but we're already down a bathmat.

So now I'm up with laundry going and little else I can do without waking the household.

It's really too bad that I have an archive of bad poetry I could expose you to at this interesting hour, but it's locked up tight behind a Windows 10 error. I suppose it forces me to think of fresh material. But at the same time, it's distressing to be separated from so many of your thoughts and ideas.

There have been times in my life where, for reasons of stress and chemical imbalance, I found myself separated from more normal thoughts, allowing me to live, temporarily, in an alternate reality. The professionals called me delusional. Later, even my aspirations to become a singer were written off by my psychiatrist as a delusion of grandeur.

So was I ever fated to succeed, or was that a product of my diseased brain? How long, exactly, has my stay in la-la land been? I know I've always been imaginative. I thoroughly enjoy talking to myself, or the cats, when I find myself alone. In my own head, I am intelligent and witty. On the outside, I wonder how nutty I seem exactly.

Maybe that's why none of those interviews panned out. I was wearing my crazy on the outside, fumbling for words, shaking, unable to properly articulate. Scared to death of being judged and unable to keep myself in check.

"And she knows she's more than just a little misunderstood. She has trouble acting normal when she's nervous." Counting Crows, Round Here, 1993



Too many ideas trapped inside my head, clawing at the inside walls of my mind. Just waiting for their chance to shine and make their creator look like she definitely needs that extra dose of Ativan. Perpetually plagued by disease and too damaged to cope with reality.

Or...not?  Sometimes I dare to wonder. And that's all I've got tonight.