The Bloody Doors Off

Here’s the thing about mental health.

My mental health. I wouldn’t presume to speak for others.

Ninety percent of the time, I am on solid footing. My meds work, my stress is manageable, I am clear-minded. I am, for lack of a better word, myself. What you see is who I am.

Then there’s the last ten percent. Something goes out of balance and I’m left reeling. Out of this, I’d say five percent are momentary anxiety attacks. I’m caught in a brief tsunami of self-doubt, a trigger I didn’t see coming flips the switch and I need to take protective measures to weather the storm. But they don’t last long; I won’t hazard a guess at how long, but they are temporary.

So that leaves five percent.

This one lingers, like bronchitis. It gets in the way of everything. There are gaps where I feel fine, but those don’t last. I hold on for dear life when I have a lucid moment, determined to ride it out for as long as I can, but fearful because it won’t. This five percent feels like ninety percent. I am surrounded by funhouse mirrors in a glass maze, unable to locate the exit.

All I can do is remind myself, that this will pass. I will gain equilibrium again. And pray I don’t leave damage in my wake.

I currently reside in that five percent.

See you on the other side.