An idea came to me last night. Write an essay that describes how the body responds to the different symptoms of a mentally ill mind. To take the brain chemistry into the body and see what happens when symptoms are lived, described. I want to explore the feelings in the body of the words that declare what an ill mind is. Words like grandiosity, irritability, detatchment, inability to feel desire, rapid thinking, paranoia, anxiety, and the like.
First up (because I was depressed last week and this is how I was feeling…no worries, though, I’m feeling awesome now!): Emptiness.
Sometimes, it grows. Sometimes, it deepens.
Emptiness is when you are lying in bed, your back numb on the brown sheets, numb from being a back lying in bed for so long. With this numb back on this brown colored bed, you lie with the emptiness. It pushes through your skin, nestles in the spaces behind your eyes, under your retina, the hollows of your bones, the layer of blood slowly slinking through the veins of your stagnant back. The skin, confused as to what creature it covers.
Emptiness has crept in, has seeped in through the pores in your skin of your tired toes. Perhaps it started earlier in the day, in the week. Perhaps its creeping, its growing, its multiplying in your body started awhile ago. You were at work when your feet began to detach, when your body began to hollow. You were at dinner with your friend when your legs began to mist. Your friend sat talking, curling Pad Thai around her fork, bits of egg tangling in sticky brown noodles while the emptiness, the void hit your kneecaps.
That was a few days ago, or maybe yesterday. Time slows down in emptiness. Its meaning has nowhere to go.
And as the creeping continues, as the shift shifts through your body, the emptiness yawps. You lie down in the face of this spreading, barking gape, because there is nothing else to do. You have plenty you have to do, your lists dusting from the days they have been lying around, waiting for your impetus to do, to tick off.
Lie on bed. Check.
This is not on the list, but it should be. So you lie. In your supine position, you see the white ceiling, the spot where it meets your tan walls, where the paint has crossed over, white penetrating the vertical brown. The top streaming down. A violation of when things should stop. Where lines should be drawn, it instead turns downward, seeps, weeps.
And now it has been awhile. And now it still continues. You return from the coffee shop in which you tried to live out in the world, to prove that you were a being who was doing, and as you sat in the black cushioned booth, you felt the mist traversing through your cells, the legs gaining weight with nothing. Your body needed to lie down against the oppression. And so you return home, return to your room that now feels more like a cave, and you lie, unable to resist, to change the way the emptiness has crashed into your bones, pressed on the inside of your skin.
It’s there, has found its home in telling you what not to do, in helping you to not do. Your ears ring with the silence of its home, with the sound of nothing. Emptiness. And so as your back numbs into the mattress, your eyes unfocus on the spot where white crosses into tan, and your head begins to fade.
The emptiness takes over, squats in the home that should be your body, should be a body living, doing.
Friends become past ideas. Spirituality, an illusion. In emptiness, you no longer exist.
You wait. Your body does not sleep, but continues to numb. It is too gone to sleep, too far away to function properly. You wait. You wait with your body stiff for the emptiness to become bored, for it to realize it fills a space that no longer responds, resists. You wait for it to realize the control it has is no longer fun. You hope the emptiness will become impatient, as you become bored with yourself and time begins to tire.