I am Mad

Madness is a funny thing. Not "ha ha" funny, but odd funny. You are going about your day and have a lovely evening with the love of your life, you share a glass or two of wine, have wonderful sex, and you fall asleep wrapped in each others arms and everything seems absolutely perfect. You wake up elated, kissing him good morning and whisper I love you. All this is going on, all this normalcy and perfection, and unexpectedly and undesired the madness is growing. You make scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Casually scanning the local paper, seeing if there is anything of interest going on in this small town (little do you know that your own life will become so very interesting in a few hours). You sneak a glance at your love, as an image of your blissful evening passes like a cloud shrouding the sun. It still lets in the sun, but it obscures the direct view of the memory. You both sigh as the day ahead urges you on. Sighing not wanting to lose this beautiful morning to responsibility and obligation. But, the day calls and you each move towards your respected duties. Outlining a thesis - it looms over you - the piles of books and research that took you months to collect and read must come together now in some cohesive whole. You've completed a ten page proposal and presented a conference paper, which was warmly received by faculty, but received a poor grade by the graduate director. You remember her comments vividly: "You will have difficulty in your career, because you have not decided upon a time period." As she does not understand that we do not all want to be Jane Austenists! She did not see the "point" of the paper and that my textual analysis was weaker than my contextualization. I seem more interested in the interdisciplinary model of English rather than the literature itself - I see this paper as an absolute failure. I was proud of it at one point, but these comments toy with my self-doubt. I am an apparent failure.

The madness was stealthy and quick .

One moment I am organizing my articles, and in a nano second I am on the bathroom floor, crippled by fear and anxiety. My chest is burning and it feels like my heart is going to beat out of my chest. My heart sounds like a drum, beating - beating - against my cheat. The tears fall in big globules that collect around my chin. I lay down and feel the cold ceramic against my cheek. I curl myself into the smallest possible ball and I try and stifle my cries. "He's in the other room. He's going to worry." But I can't stop. I suddenly remember - the razor - suddenly, as if possessed by a spirit I am a woman on a mission. I remember seeing a razor in here last night. Finding this this razor is absolutely necessary. It is the only thing I think about. If I find the razor I will just get some relief. I just need a release. But, I can't find it. "Where is it? it was here last night? It couldn't have gone far. If I were a razor where would I be? The medicine cabinet!" Empty. "Anything else useful in there? Pills? Medication?" Nothing but beautiful bottles filled with lotions and potions. "The drawer!" Empty. Nothing of use in there either. "Don't we have any medication in the house at all? Ah ha! Under the sink!" Not there either. Just some kotex and toilet paper. Then I remember, "the other drawer in the cabinet." This is my last hope. The tears have stopped since I began to search. All I can think about is cutting. I can't think of the anxiety. I cant think of the oppressive weight on my body. I can't think of the looming thesis. All I need is to cut. I need to feel the burning sensation. I need to see the blood. I need to know I am still alive. I tentatively open the drawer, as if I am expecting something to jump out and kill me (if I was only that lucky). At first I saw nothing, a few hairbrushes, a nail file - nothing. Then I see it. The bag containing the razors. It's like a glimmer of hope in my black world. Do I want to die? I don't know. Do I want to disappear and never exist? absolutely. My hands shake with excitement. Like an addict scoring their hit or an alcoholic with a 1950 bottle of merlot. I test the sharpness by dragging it lightly at first along my bicep. It burns. The blood begins to surface. I make a second mark parallel to the first. More blood. It's sharp. I drag a diagonal line across my forearm. Then repeat on the same spot. Ah - the blood is all I can think about it. I need a deeper mark. I drag another line closer to my wrist. Just caressing the vein. Then I get an idea - I need a line straight from my wrist to my elbow. No. Just one real deep cut. One that will gush blood........

a knock.

I realize the crying has resumed.

another knock.

I hear my name.

A voice. His voice.

I panic.
He's going to be mad, send me to the hospital.

I've done it now.

I feel my chest heave with a sob. He tries the knob. Aha! I was smart enough to lock the door. I feel proud of myself as if I have accomplished this great feat of evasion. As if I have just performed some military coup d'etat. I hear my name again. The knock turns into a banging. I'm wailing along with the banging that seems to be going in beat with my heart that is pounding in my chest.

I let him in. Why? I don't know.

I feel myself lie back down on the cold ceramic. Putting my wrist on the cold floor and feeling the burning of the cuts subsiding.

He falls to his knees.

He is crying.

Why?

He picks me up in his arms and cradles me like a baby. He whispers that it will all be okay, and I think to myself that it's not. I am not okay. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have ruined everything.

One perfect morning and my entire life seems to fall apart like a house of cards encountering a soft breeze that enters from an open window.

It is done. I am mad.