Serendipity
S.O.S.
I'm sitting here in front of my brother's laptop after a very long week of doing this and that, pretending to function as normally as possible when deep inside, specifically in the most obscure recesses of my brain, two voices are also arguing about this and that. Sandwiched between these two voices is another voice, which I know is the real me, trying to quiet the two opposing voices and I'm thinking, have I finally gone cuckoo? Is this how crazy people think and should I start getting prescriptions for risperidone or clozapin?
Seriously, I think I'm slowly losing my mind. These past weeks have really stressed me out in spite of a two day vacation in St. Simons Island here in Georgia where I tried to drown my sorrows and my anxiety with alcohol and cheese. And last Tuesday, I thought watching the musical Mama Mia! on its premiere run at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta would relax me, but who in her right mind could relax when "Knowing Me, Knowing You" and "The Winner Takes It All" were being belted out like there was no tomorrow? I think the ABBA songs in Mama Mia! were cheesier than the cheese that I gorged on in St. Simons, so much so that instead of putting the three voices in my head to sleep, I gave them an excuse to party to the tune of "Dancing Queen".
It is scary, to be confronted by the tenuousness of sanity. Akin to being faced with one's mortality, there is a feeling of eventuality to it, like at any moment, everything will just unravel right before my very eyes and before I can even spell "p-s-y-c-h-o", I'd have a passionate love affair with four-point restraints, and be lovingly shackled at the wrists and ankles with tight leather belts.
The thing about me that I have to admit is that I really have no extraordinary talent, no special human qualities. I can write, but I'm no Jane Austen or Emily Brontë, and I'm still sane enough to know that I won't be writing the next great novel any time soon. But one thing I know that I am absolutely good at is -- worrying. I'm a worrier, a fusspot. I incessantly worry about everything, of what might go wrong, even of what might go right. I lie awake in bed at night and think of all possible possibilities and go through every single part and angle with the precision of a nuclear physicist. Of course, because I'm a worrywart, no matter how I obsess about every single detail, I'm almost always convinced that the worst possible scenario will eventually happen. I might be able to get away with a positive demeanor especially when I'm with people, but at the back of my mind (where my three voices are taking residence, temporarily I hope) -- I know things always bomb out.
I've always been like this. But back home, I had my kids and my husband to keep me preoccupied and happy. Now that I'm alone, I'm beginning to understand why some people need to spend $500 an hour just to talk to someone. I've always scoffed at why people in this part of the world get easily depressed and slug antipsychotic cocktails even before the 6 pm happy hour. Now, I completely understand. Stress, compounded by loneliness, with a little nudge from behavioral or genetic predisposition can drive the sanest of saints to Cuckoo Land.
But don't be alarmed. The fact that I can write about this intelligibly and with utmost clarity is proof that I haven't gone completely bonkers yet. And although I titled this article S.O.S., it's more in reference to a particularly hokey song that I like than a distress signal to bring me to the nearest nuthouse. So, relax, put the Haldol back in the medicine cabinet and fold the straightjacket. I'll be fine -- with a little help from ABBA.
"The love you gave me, nothing else can save me -- S. O. S." -- ABBA