Mental/Health

It feels like my face is going to pop off. My skin feels like it’s boiling but not melting. There’s a strange thing brewing inside of my head.
 Some time ago, it happened for the first time. There was nothing I could do about it because I did not understand it at the moment. I might as well have been going through puberty again. If only I could trace this back to a glandular problem. Most of my time, when these burning-face feelings start, is spent trying to find something to listen to: music; audiobook; my neighbor’s voice through the ceiling; traffic; birds; the wind; etc. fucking etc. It’s always a hard etc. The only thing I end up hearing when thinking about what I should pursue as a distraction is the ceaseless grinding of my synapses trying to weld my head together so it can work properly.
 The machinery in my mental cavities, the workings in my cranium, what I think about is diagnoses, “What the fuck is happening to me!” and it’s more of an exclamation than a real question. I’m afraid that if I phrase it like a question then I will get an answer, and the answer will be worse than this perpetuating uncertainty of what the fuck is happening to me. Thinking about it like this leads me to wonder about the actuality of how I’m feeling. Do I actually feel this way? The potential for a rational conclusion being that I do not feel this way and I am making it up scares me even more. It is, after all, all in my head, right? Wrong? Give me something anything really.
 It’s become unbearable for me to read my favorite short stories and novels… maybe I should switch to something less gothic horror and more self-help-happiness. Then again, maybe I should just curl up in a fetal ball and just quit trying to fight this THING in my fucked up mindset if I just want someone else to fix this for me. I’ve always had a penchant for helping myself with the masculinity issue of believing I don’t need help from anybody.
 Hilariously laughable that I believe I don’t need help from anybody. Funny? Depends on your sense of humour. I just mean that it’s kind of ironic that I do not want to get “help” from anybody in a “professional” context because I don’t feel it’s worth it. I don’t feel it’s worth it because I don’t feel like I will be seen differently by anybody afterwards, I feel I will be the same person in all their eyes whether I change or not. It seems to be the case when I do work on myself, which I am perpetually doing.
 I’m reticent to get professional help because I’ve put a lot of work into this mind-body problem that I’ve got, and the professionals usually seek to undo the habits their patients have built into their lives. I know professionals mean well, I know it well enough. It’s just that I’m afraid that they will strip me clean of the things I’ve done for myself that actually work and try to replace it with something that’s more about productivity than creatively solving a problem; I’m afraid they’ll rip away the catapults and battering rams I’ve constructed to smash down the plastic castles in my brains and replace my weaponry with clean spoons and “proper” posture… I’m afraid they’ll think I don’t brush my teeth before I go to bed, or something.
 Jesus Christ! am I becoming my inner-child? Am I a psychiatric stereotype? Have I become the object they keep in jars of preservative fluid to show one another: “This is what you don’t want in your body!” That would mean my insides are showing far more fluently than my outsides, or would it, I think I’ve lost myself.
 Fuck me the automatic imagery. I’m in a dark room, there’s a slight breeze, I got here in my psychic-landscape after the floor turned into water and I slipped buoyantly through the layer floor-turned-water. It was just a thin layer and now I’m standing. I’m standing on nothing because there’s just me and a whole bunch of blackness. Something’s struck me, I’m wounded, but I’m alone. If I’m alone what the fuck just pelted me in the solar plexus? This phenomenology is no longer amusing me, come out and show yourself. Now, I know I thought that but why didn’t I speak it? All these questions, the questions need answers and I’m still afraid of the answers. What’s next?

Like what you read? Give Rhett H. Baylor a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.