Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 2

It’s NaBloPoMo Day 2!

Today’s confession: I remember very vividly the day I thought I’d gone crazy, and I remember being totally okay with that.

Have you ever gone crazy? Have you ever thought you’d gone crazy? Are you afraid you’ll go crazy? My friends and I joke about going crazy all the time…but there was one day I thought it had all come to fruition.

Before we get to that story, here’s a little back-history.

It’s no true secret that both sides of my family tree include some fruit of the nut variety. I say this with kindness and love. I’m not making light or fun of those with mental challenges. It was always just a fact that some key players in my genetic past varied from a wee-bit-wacky to a little more full-tilt.

And that’s okay. I accepted that. I’ve learned enough about genetics to know that some things get passed on through the ages, and some things don’t.

So, back to the story…

The year was 1995 or 1996, and I was in college. I was nearing the end of my time there, and I’d been working so hard. The hours I was keeping were insane, but I wouldn’t have changed them for anything. I’d spend time with my friends until Midnight or so and then study until 3am or 4am and then sleep until 7am. Then, I’d go to my campus job, working for one of the Department Heads before starting my full day of classes and doing it all over again.

I was living on 3 hours a sleep a night and filling in the gaps with caffeine. Spending time with my friends was necessary for my mental health. Studying the way I did was necessary for my academic goals. Working the hours I did were not negotiable. I’d try to make up my sleep on the weekends, waking up at the crack of Noon on Saturdays, and that seemed to keep me sane.

But, unlike my time spent in the Breastfeeding-a-Newborn-Every-Two-Hours Trenches 10-years later, I loved it. I wasn’t exhausted. I was exhilarated. I was empowered. Everything was falling into place, and my plans to take over the world were coming together nicely.

Until the day I thought I’d gone crazy.

I’ll never forget it. I was taking a shower. My dorm had a shower room across the hall from my room. I had a particular stall I liked, and it was available. Today was going to be a good day! (What? Once a perfectionist, always a perfectionist.) I was about to shampoo my hair when it happened: Little tiny letters appeared all over my hands. They were little black letters. I wasn’t dreaming. I was very much awake. They were so crisp and clear. They weren’t blurry. They weren’t a figment of my imagination. They were really there. I touched them. Some of them moved around, and some of them got on my fingers.

Some of the letters got caught in the tiny streams of water from the shower and got stuck on my stomach and my leg. Some of them washed down the drain.

The letters looked so real, but my brain knew they couldn’t be. There was only one rational explanation.

Rather than panic, a feeling of peace came over me. It had finally happened. I’d finally gone crazy, and it hadn’t happened in a violent way. I’d finally lost it, and part of me had always wondered what it would be like. I wondered if I should keep the secret of my insanity to myself or if I should tell someone. Would they let me finish my degree if I’d gone crazy?

As I’m having this conversation with myself, I decided to focus on the task at hand. I needed to get my shower done, and then I could figure out what to do with the fact that I’d gone crazy.

I pick up my shampoo bottle again. That’s when I noticed something strange. The lettering on the back of my shampoo bottle was smudged. The little letters were coming off. I touched them with my fingers and they stuck to my skin like little appliques.

I hadn’t gone crazy after all…my psychosis was actually a faulty shampoo bottle label.

Or was it?