I'M IN A GLASS CASE OF EMOTION.

I can't sleep and I feel like I'm going to throw up. I want to express myself in poem:

T'is the night before the psychiatrists and all through the flat
not a creature was stirring except a yellow house cat.
And then awoke Sarah, racing thoughts in her head
about diagnosis and fear of ill-working meds.

Yeah.

You see, I'm almost positive that medication will probably change my mind forever and turn me into some freaking mutant. No, not a cool mutant like the Ninja Turtles. I'd be some genetic fuck-up like Quasimodo. I am completely convinced that this is the only logical scenario.

I deal with extreme paranoia like this on a daily basis. The most frustrating part is knowing that it's fucked up, but still believing it anyway. Take this real-life example of a recent run-in with paranoia:

The Scene: One thirty in the morning. Boyfriend's apartment. Bed.

Boyfriend: zzzzzz
Sarah: O_O ican'tsleep
Boyfriend: "mmmwhat? *sharp inhale, yawn*
Sarah: O_O ican'tsleep i'vebeenawakeforever
Boyfriend: mmm...why?
Sarah: Someone is going to steal my car.
Boyfriend: No one is going to steal your car. Go back to sleep.
Sarah: How do you know? You're asleep. You can't even see my car. Someone's going to break into my car. They'll hotwire it like I saw on Full House.
Boyfriend: zzzzz...
Sarah: WAKE UP. SOMEONE IS GOING TO STEAL MY CAR.
Boyfriend: *long groan* Babe. Go. To. Sleep. It'll be fine.
Sarah: ...Oh shit. I left my biology book in there and it's a rental. No one will believe me that my car got stolen . . . they'll think I'm a thief! Everyone will hate me!
Boyfriend: *probably pretending to sleep*
Sarah: Heey. HEEEEEEEY. Would you buy me a new car?
Boyfriend: . . . Sarah.
Sarah: Right. . . Ha! But I remember I'm almost out of gas. Oh man. Won't the thieves be PISSED when they find that out. By the time they even realize it, I'll have already called the cops. Do you think they'd be so mad that they'd find me and kill me? Or would they be in jail a while? That'd give me enough time to change my name and skip the country. . .

And then I continued to plan my escape from the United States with the smug satisifaction that I had stopped a couple of thieves by never driving on a full tank of gas.


Ok, I hate my thought process, so maybe medication won't be that bad. Maybe I'm Quasimodo right now and I'm just trying to fit in with the normal people. You know, those people who can actually fucking handle shit.

What I'd give. What I'd dare. Just to live one day out there.