So I mentioned in an earlier post my personal metaphor for my depression, the black bird on my shoulder. Well, that corvid has a brother, and his name is psychosis.
I’ve mentioned in some other posts some things I’ve done when I was less than rational. So far, nothing too bad (that is, no self-injuries or injuries to others.) I rarely act on psychotic impulses, and always, after having a break from reality, I return to myself and am capable of realizing that what I just thought (or heard) was not rational. But still, the fact that it happens, however brief, scares me. It’s a disturbing thing to not be able to trust your own mind. There’s no guarantees how I’ll act. Especially toward other people. I once got into a shouting match with my parents because I was suddenly convinced they were conspiring against me, talking about me behind my back. Of course I apologized afterward, but still.
And I’m terrified that one day I’ll have a psychotic break, say, in a store or in the middle of class one day. It would be terribly embarrassing.
The worst thing about having psychotic depression, in my opinion, is that I am sane enough to lead a normal life, with just enough craziness to disturb that life and make it really hard to manage sometimes.
As long as this, the sane, “real”, non-psychotic me has the wheel, though, things will be okay. And my antipsychotic medication has actually lessened the occurrences of psychosis.
I just go on living, hoping that the psychotic version of myself stays hidden in the recesses of my mind, somewhere in those dark corners that I don’t like to explore.