Take a cotton ball. Spread it so the fibers thin slightly and it’s like an oval piece of mesh. Now place this over both eyes and live your life. Go about making coffee and love. Plan meetings, playdates, talk on the phone and write a thesis. Buy groceries, mow the lawn.
Remember as you go about doing all your doings, your friends and family still see clearly. They have no cotton. They’re the ones in the background constantly chanting, “You will feel like yourself again. Just wait.”
And when they accidentally let a chuckle escape their mouth because they know your behavior is erratic, that soon you won’t be crying over the dandelion spores and potato chips the kids put in the back seat of the car, try your best not to kick them in the shin and then point.
Welcome to a slight understanding of what it’s like in the midst of mental illness. Everything hazy, stuck, and you just can’t see your way through. Even with all the yoga and fish oil the doctors suggest. I know, I know. It does help, but when I’m on the floor in fetal position, my body rocking from a rush of adrenaline, I’m not so much thinking about the best use of down dog. Not to mention how everything seems to take 3-4 weeks or forever which also is not the best of help for immediate circumstances.
Folks, my cotton has fallen. It’s like I can breathe again. For every minute I was fighting for a sense of reality I am now opening my hands in gratitude for the relief. I mean, I can still be moody over my son’s screeching noises. But even the most sane person would find neverending mouth-farts annoying after awhile. Get ahold of yourself child.
I know I have taken small freedoms for granted when I enter a sixteenth entry of symptoms in my journal which say, very mild, almost unnoticeable. The words track two weeks of acclimation. Two weeks in the trenches of upheaval, finally claiming calm.
It’s as I rummage through the laundry basket that I hear their laughs come unexpectedly. It surprises them because they start slowly until one kid’s giggle feeds the other until they are a mess of silly. I smile broad, full, and feel it deep in the reserves of my chest. I take a second to realize that a smile is progress. I am engaged in my life and not clawing for a sense of normality.
There may be a few final shreds on the eyelashes, but I’ve made it. And not all on my own.