I haven’t exactly had a rockin’ MLK weekend. In fact, the only things that I have gotten done are printing out twelve scholarly articles on Kate Chopin and Toni Morrison and interviewing my mother and father about the 1980s for my Totally Awesome 80s elective class. (Great name, no?)
On Sunday, I forgot to take my medication, and by four p.m., I “kept forgetting my hands” (how I weirdly described it at the time). I’d look at them, and the fact that I was in control of them was mind-boggling. I also had the funny sensation that I was hovering above my head and slightly to the left. Needless to say, I wasn’t acting normally. At dinnertime, I decided that I had to show my father that I had discovered how to put on socks on each foot simultaneously. Now, that would be a cute party trick for a five-year-old, but for a seventeen-year-old like me, it’s more than slightly strange. The repeat performances and the rolling around on the floor were the icing on the cake. Thankfully, I realized why I was doing it at around ten thirty, sent Audrey a series of strange text messages (Example: “Everything tastes like turnips. Yeah. No more turnips.”), and climbed into bed.
Today, I slept until two, didn’t eat anything until four, had a panic attack walking up the street to Tal’s, and tried to avoid eating dinner by sitting in the corner of the dining room with my hands over my eyes. My sense of reality has still been more than slightly distorted, and I have been hiding in my turtle shell. And, once again, I’ve discovered that there is strange amount of comfort in lying in bed, rocking back and forth, and telling yourself, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
Tomorrow’s battle will be to return to school. I’m not feeling up to it now, but I have a tray of cupcakes to deliver. And cupcake duties always trump anxiety.