LeliaThomas.Com

Turns out being mentally healthy is like winning the lottery, except you don’t get to buy a ticket for this game. You’re either normal, or you’re not, and the definitions of such a concept change over time. By these standards, some people are crazy for a while. Some people are crazy forever. Some people who you think should be locked up are called productive citizens, usually politicians.

What is normal anymore? What was ever normal? How do you know you’re sane? Isn’t part of being insane the denial of insanity? Maybe we’re all a little crazy. Maybe it’s just a matter of to what degree.

Maybe I am crazy. Am I crazy?

The blue light is flashing amid the black. I don’t have to look at my watch. I know it’s around three in the morning, like it is every time this happens. My eyes have closed only briefly in the night. I’ve stared at the ceiling for hours, waiting for this. Dreading this.

I don’t have to check my mobile. I already know who it is. I know it’s her. I know the numbers that will be there, right by her name. I can see them. The sloping back of the seven, the curves of the threes, the endless knot that is the eight. I see it all. She called. She wants to talk. I want to talk, but I know better.

I don’t need to get up and talk, because that light isn’t actually flashing. It’s just what I want to see. My doctor says these hallucinations are part of the stress, part of the temporary insanity that my mind is subjecting me to after all that’s happened. It’s hell.

He says it’s weird that I see things, that most people only report voices, that there are usually only flashbacks and nightmares. But what is normal? They don’t know everything yet.

And I am a guinea pig, a part of the great continuing study on man.

I wish the light would go away.

Sometimes I wonder. What is real? Is it just my mind willing me to see that blue in the night, or is it happening–somewhere? Not here, maybe. Not in this room, where my body is lying–where I think my body is lying–maybe somewhere else. But where?

The pill bottle they gave me is on my nightstand, right beside the blinking-non-blinking phone. I let two of the pills rest in my palm, and they slowly melt, like M&M candies. Wonder what’s in them. Names of things I can’t pronounce, probably. Tested on mice I’ll never pet. Trial studied on people I’ll never speak to personally.

I’m supposed to trust this.

The blue light is not flashing.

Telling myself this does not make it stop. I bring the pills to my lips, reach for my glass of water.

But I want to believe it is blinking.

My hand drops to my lap. The pills roll down my palm, leaving a trail of orange dye. They slip through my fingers and glide to the floor, making tiny cap-cap sounds as they hit the hard wood.

What is normal?

What is real?