Crazy Train

My subconscious has the neat little trick of narrating my life with lyrics. I rarely notice when it starts, but in the middle of Something my mouth is humming or singing a song which mirrors my mood or circumstances. If my mood is good or sarcastic, I smirk appreciatively at my clever brain; if I'm pissy or sad or really upset, the perfect song in my head seems mocking or cruel.

When I get up today, the accompaniment is Ozzy's "Crazy Train." It plays at top volume as I fly around the kitchen after not finding the bag of chocolate chips in its hiding spot. I fling open cupboard after cupboard. SOMEONE WILL PAY. The guitar solo shrieks with clarity. I find the bag in a different spot, clutch it in a death grip, walk much too slowly and calmly to my chair. Crazy, but that's how it goes...

After a night of wild, vivid dreams, I expect my waking brain to need some time. My biochemistry is off. I'm used to my patterns. So the logical side of me watches and listens as the raving part of me gobbles chocolate chips and clicks on links to terrible news stories about kidnappings, brutal beatings and death. And reads the comments. And hates the people leaving the comments. And then hates the news outlets for the way they report the stories. The media sells it and you live the role...

Then I go to Facebook and read inspiring things from inspiring people who usually inspire me to inspire myself and others. And I feel like a troll. An ugly troll who has no right being friends with these people. An ugly troll who has plucked too many chin hairs and now has trouble keeping up. An ugly troll feeling her prickly chin who doesn't want to read Good Things. An ugly troll with a prickly chin and too many scars from the scabs she repeatedly rips off her skin. An ugly troll with a prickly chin who is now ripping a scab off her arm and rolling it between her fingers because that's what she does. While she stuffs her face with an entire bag of chocolate chips. I know that things are going wrong for me...

Sounds are too loud. Zippers tear my ears apart, the phone rings inside my head, doors slam against my skull. I'm going off the rails...

I check the theater listings because what I really want is to go sit in the dark and watch a chaotic movie involving lots of weapons, jump through the screen and arm myself with a sword, multiple knives and torches and fight off beasts more horrible than myself. Go nuts and be covered in dirt, blood, and sweat, and stand alone at the end of the movie on a smoky hill with battle sounds ringing in my ears. Mental wounds still screaming...

I let myself read the Sister Wives Blog and make snarky noises about how they've messed up their family, gotten caught in the fame and money trap. I let myself look in the mirror and list my faults, count my white hairs, eat half a brick of cheese, refuse to brush my teeth, and berate myself for not being a real writer, because real writers write instead of watching episodes of Hoarders, World's Dumbest Criminals and Lifetime movies. Who and what's to blame...   

The logical side of me is like a parent. A parent watching someone else's kid freak out. A parent smiling and riding out the storm, knowing the kid will be going home soon for a nap and a sippy cup full of milk and Prozac. It will turn out okay. It always does.

Maybe it's not too late to learn how to love and forget how to hate...

And a little later the crazy part of me runs out of steam, because she wasn't bottled up. She didn't try to act happy and normal. She didn't make herself feel bad for feeling bad. She also didn't leave the house during the Crazy, stuff it down and pretend she wanted to go for a walk or buy something pretty or visit one of The Happy People. Which never works. She rode it out. All aboard! Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaa...

And I'm okay. I am breathing deeply, giving my family a genuine smile or two. Being more kind to myself. Understanding that I needed to be a little crazy, in private, in order to get here. Understanding that we are all a little crazy, but that's how it goes...

I turn up the volume on my internal song and it's different now. It's Bob Marley. "Three Little Birds."

"This is my message to you...don't worry about a thing. Every little thing is gonna be all right."

Gotta go. I'm gonna work on my novel.

You gotta listen to my words.